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THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 


THE  MILLION- 
DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

RV 

'aer* 
ALICE  MAcGOWAN 

AND 

PERRY  NEWBERRY 


INTERNATIONAL  FICTION  LIBRARY 

CLEVELAND,  O.  NEW  YORK,  N.  Y. 

MADE  IN  U.  3.  A. 


Copyright,  1922,  by 
FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 

Copyright,  1921,  by 

THE  CURTIS  PUBLISHING  COMPANY 

under  the  title  "Two  and  Two" 


PRESS   07 

THE  COMMERCIAL  BOOKBINDING   CO. 
CLEVELAND 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAOH 

I    WORTH  GILBERT i 

II     SIGHT  UNSEEN 16 

III  A  WEDDING  PARTY 27 

IV  AN  APPARITION 45 

V    AT  THE  ST.  DUNSTAN 57 

VI    ON  THE  ROOF 65 

VII    THE  GOLD  NUGGET 75 

VIII     A  TIN-HORN  GAMBLER 87 

IX    SANTA  YSOBEL 101 

X    A  SHADOW  IN  THE  FOG no 

XI    THE  MISSING  DIARY 124 

XII    A   MURDER *     ....   137 

XIII  DR.  BOWMAN 147 

XIV  SEVEN  LOST  DAYS 155 

XV    AT  DYKEMAN'S  OFFICE 164 

XVI    A   LUNCHEON 171 

XVII     CLEANSING  FIRES 181 

XVIII    THE  TORN   PAGE 188 

XIX     ON  THE  HILL-TOP 196 

XX    AT  THE  COUNTRY  CLUB 209 

XXI     A  MATTER  OF  TASTE 214 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAOB 

XXII  A  DINNER  INVITATION 225 

XXIII  A  BIT  OF  SILK 231 

XXIV  THE  MAGNET 240 

XXV  AN  ARREST 250 

XXVI  MRS.  BOWMAN  SPEAKS 261 

XXVII  THE  BLOSSOM  FESTIVAL 273 

XXVIII  THE  COUNTRY  CLUB  BALL 293 

XXIX  UNMASKED 303 

XXX  A  CONFESSION 311 

XXXI  THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE  .     .     .  320 


THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 


The  Million-Dollar  Suitcase 

CHAPTER  I 

WORTH  GILBERT 

ON  the  blank  silence  that  followed  my  last  words, 
there  in  the  big,  dignified  room  with  its  Cir 
cassian  walnut  and  sound-softening  rugs,  Dykeman, 
the  oldest  director,  squalled  out  as  though  he  had  been 
bitten, 

"All  there  is  to  tell!  But  it  can't  be!  It  isn't 
possib — "  His  voice  cracked,  split  on  the  word,  and 
the  rest  came  in  an  agonized  squeak,  "A  man  can't 
just  vanish  into  thin  air !" 

"A  man!"  Knapp,  the  cashier,  echoed.  "A  suitcase 
full  of  money — our  money — can't  vanish  into  thin  air 
in  the  course  of  a  few  hours." 

Feverishly  they  passed  the  timeworn  phrase  back 
and  forth;  it  would  have  been  ludicrous  if  it  hadn't 
been  so  deadly  serious.  Well,  money  when  you  come 
to  think  of  it,  is  its  very  existence  to  such  an  institu 
tion  ;  it  was  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  the  twelve  men 
around  the  long  table  in  the  directors'  room  of  the 
Van  Ness  Avenue  Savings  Bank  found  this  a  life  or 
death  matter. 

"How  much — ?"  began  heavy-set,  heavy-voiced  old 
An  son,  down  at  the  lower  end,  but  stuck  and  got  no 
further.  There  was  a  smitten  look  on  every  face  at 
the  contemplation — a  suitcase  could  hold  so  unguess- 


2        THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

ably  great  a  sum  expressed  in  terms  of  cash  and 
securities. 

"We'll  have  the  exact  amount  in  a  few  moments — 
I've  just  set  them  to  verifying,"  President  Whipple 
indicated  with  a  slight  backward  nod  the  second  and 
smaller  table  in  the  room,  where  two  clerks  delved 
mole-like  among  piles  of  securities,  among  greenbacks 
and  yellowbacks  bound  round  with  paper  collars,  and 
stacks  of  coin. 

The  blinds  were  down,  only  the  table  lamps  on,  and 
a  gooseneck  over  where  the  men  counted.  It  put  the 
place  all  in  shadow,  and  threw  out  into  bolder  relief  the 
faces  around  that  board,  gray-white,  denatured,  all  with 
the  financier's  curiously  unhuman  look.  The  one 
fairly  cheerful  countenance  in  sight  was  that  of  A.  G. 
Cummings,  the  bank's  attorney. 

For  myself,  I  was  only  waiting  to  hear  what  results 
those  clerks  woifld  bring  us.  So  far,  Whipple  had 
been  quite  noncommittal :  the  extraordinary  state  of 
the  market — everything  so  upset  that  a  bank  couldn't 
afford  even  the  suspicion  of  a  loss  or  irregularity — 
hinting  at  something  in  his  mind  not  evident  to  the 
rest  of  us.  I  was  just  rising  to  go  round  and  ask  him 
quietly  if,  having  reported,  I  might  not  be  excused  to 
get  on  the  actual  work,  when  the  door  opened. 

I  can't  say  why  the  young  fellow  who  stood  in  it 
should  have  seemed  so  foreign  to  the  business  in  hand ; 
perhaps  the  carriage  of  his  tall  figure,  the  military 
abruptness  of  his  movements,  the  way  he  swung  the 
door  far  back  against  the  wall  and  halted  there,  look 
ing  us  over.  But  I  do  know  that  no  sooner  had 
Worth  Gilbert,  lately  home  from  France,  crossed  the 
threshold,  meeting  Whipple's  outstretched  hand,  nod- 


WORTH  GILBERT  3 

ding  carelessly  to  the  others,  than  suddenly  every  man 
in  the  room  seemed  older,  less  a  man.  We  were  dead 
ones ;  he  the  only  live  wire  in  the  place. 

"Boyne,"  the  president  turned  quickly  to  me,  "would 
you  mind  going  over  for  Captain  Gilbert's  benefit  what 
you've  just  said?" 

The  newcomer  had,  so  far,  not  made  any  movement 
to  join  the  circle  at  the  table.  He  stood  there,  chin  up, 
looking  straight  at  us  all,  but  quite  through  us.  At 
the  back  of  the  gaze  was  a  something  between  weary 
and  fierce  that  I  have  noticed  in  the  eyes  of  so  many 
of  our  boys  home  from  what  they'd  witnessed  and  gone 
through  over  there,  when  forced  to  bring  their  atten 
tion  to  the  stale,  bloodless  affairs  of  civil  life.  Used 
to  the  instant,  conclusive  fortunes  of  war,  they  can 
hardly  handle  themselves  when  matters  hitch  and  halt 
upon  customs  and  legalities ;  the  only  thing  that  appeals 
to  them  is  the  big  chance,  win  or  lose,  and  have  it  over. 
Such  a  man  doesn't  speak  the  language  of  the  group 
that  was  there  gathered.  Just  looking  at  him,  old 
Dykeman  rasped,  without  further  provocation, 

"What's  Captain  Gilbert  got  to  do  with  the  private 
concerns  of  this  bank?" 

As  though  the  words — and  their  tone — had  been  a 
cordial  invitation,  rather  than  an  offensive  challenge, 
the  young  man,  who  had  still  shown  no  sign  of 
an  intention  to  come  into  the  meeting  at  all,  walked 
to  the  table,  drew  out  a  chair  and  sat  down. 

"Pardon  me,  Mr.  Dykeman,"  Cummings'  voice 
had  a  wire  edge  on  it,  "the  Han  ford  block  of  stock  in 
this  bank  has,  as  I  think  you  very  well  know,  passed 
fully  into  Gilbert  hands  to-day." 


4       THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Thomas  A.  Gilbert,"  Dykeman  was  sparing  of 
words. 

"Captain  Worth  Gilbert's  father,"  Whipple  at 
tempted  pacification.  "Mr.  Gilbert  senior  was  with 
me  till  nearly  noon,  closing  up  the  transfer.  He  had 
hardly  left  when  we  discovered  the  shortage.  After 
consultation,  Knapp  and  I  got  hold  of  Cummings. 
We  wanted  to  get  you  gentlemen  here — have  the  cap 
ital  of  the  bank  represented,  as  nearly  as  we  could — 
and  found  that  Mr.  Gilbert  had  taken  the  twelve- forty- 
five  train  for  Santa  Ysobel ;  so,  as  Captain  Gilbert  was 
to  be  found,  we  felt  that  if  we  got  him  it  would  be 
practically — er — quite  the  same  thing — " 

Worth  Gilbert  had  sat  in  the  chair  he  selected,  abso 
lutely  indifferent.  It  was  only  when  Dykeman,  hang 
ing  to  his  point,  spoke  again,  that  I  saw  a  quick  gleam 
of  blue  fire  come  into  those  hawk  eyes  under  the  slant 
brow.  He  gave  a  sort  of  detached  attention  as 
Dykeman  sputtered  indecently. 

"Not  the  same  thing  at  all!  Sons  can't  always 
speak  for  fathers,  any  more  than  fathers  can  always 
speak  for  sons.  In  this  case — " 

He  broke  off  with  his  ugly  old  mouth  open.  Worth 
Gilbert,  the  son  of  divorced  parents,  with  a  childhood 
that  had  divided  time  between  a  mother  in  the  East 
and  a  California  father,  surveyed  the  parchment-like 
countenance  leisurely  after  the  crackling  old  voice  was 
hushed.  Finally  he  grunted  inarticulately  (I'm  sorry 
I  can't  find  a  more  imposing  word  for  a  returned 
hero)  ;  and  answered  all  objections  with, 

"I'm  here  now — and  here  I  stay.  What's  the 
excitement?" 


WORTH  GILBERT  5 

"I  was  just  asking  Mr.  Boyne  to  tell  you,"  Whipple 
came  in  smoothly. 

No  one  else  offered  any  objections.  What  I  re 
peated,  briefly,  amounted  to  this: 

Directly  after  closing  time  to-day — which  was  noon, 
as  this  was  Saturday — Knapp,  the  cashier  of  the  bank, 
had  discovered  a  heavy  shortage,  and  it  was  decided 
on  a  quick  investigation  that  Edward  Clayte,  one  of 
the  paying  tellers,  had  walked  out  with  the  money  in 
a  suitcase.  I  was  immediately  called  in  on  what 
appeared  a  wide-open  trail,  with  me  so  close  behind 
Clayte  that  you'd  have  said  there  was  nothing  to  it. 
I  followed  him — and  the  suitcase — to  his  apartment 
at  the  St.  Dunstan,  found  he'd  got  there  at  twenty- 
five  minutes  to  one,  and  I  barely  three  quarters  of  an 
hour  after. 

"How  do  you  get  the  exact  minute  Clayte  arrived?" 
Anson  stopped  me  at  this  point,  "and  the  positive 
knowledge  that  he  had  the  suitcase  with  him?" 

"Clayte  asked  the  time — from  the  clerk  at  the  desk 
— as  he  eame  in.  He  put  the  suitcase  down  while  he 
set  his  watch.  The  clerk  saw  him  pick  it  up  and  go 
into  the  elevator;  Mrs.  Griggsby,  a  woman  at  work 
mending  carpet  on  the  seventh  floor — which  is  his — 
saw  him  come  out  of  the  elevator  carrying  it,  and  let 
himself  into  his  room.  There  the  trail  ends." 

"Ends  ?"  As  my  voice  halted  young  Gilbert's  word 
came  like  a  bullet.  "The  trail  can't  end  unless  the 
man  was  there." 

"Or  the  suitcase,"  little  old  Sillsbee  quavered,  and 
Worth  Gilbert  gave  him  a  swift,  half -humorous  glance. 

"Bath  and  bedroom,"  I  said,  "that  suite  has  three 


6       THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

windows,  seven  stories  above  the  ground.  I  found 
them  all  locked — not  mere  latches — the  St.  Dunstan 
has  burglar-proof  locks.  No  disturbance  in  the  room ; 
all  neat,  in  place,  the  door  closed  with  the  usual  spring 
lock;  and  I  had  to  get  Mrs.  Griggsby  to  move,  since 
she  was  tacking  the  carpet  right  at  the  threshold. 
Everything  was  in  that  room  that  should  have  been 
there — except  Clayte  and  the  suitcase." 

The  babel  of  complaint  and  suggestion  broke  out  as 
I  finished,  exactly  as  it  had  done  when  I  got  to  this 
point  before:  "The  Griggsby  woman  ought  to  be  kept 
under  surveillance" ;  "The  clerk,  the  house  servants 
ought  to  be  watched," — and  so  on,  and  so  on.  I 
curtly  reiterated  my  assurance  that  such  routine 
matters  had  been  promptly  and  thoroughly  attended  to. 
My  nerves  were  getting  raw.  I'm  not  so  young  as  I 
was.  This  promised  to  be  one  of  those  grinding  cases 
where  the  detective  agency  is  run  through  the  rollers 
so  many  times  that  it  comes  out  pretty  slim  in  the  end, 
whether  that  end  is  failure  or  success. 

The  only  thing  in  sight  that  it  didn't  make  me  sick 
to  look  at  was  that  silent  young  fellow  sitting  there, 
never  opening  his  trap,  giving  things  a  chance  to 
develop,  not  rushing  in  on  them  with  the  forceps.  It 
was  a  crazy  thing  for  Whipple  to  call  this  meeting — 
have  all  these  old,  scared  men  on  my  back  before  I 
could  take  the  measure  of  what  I  was  up  against. 
What,  exactly,  had  the  Van  Ness  Avenue  Bank  lost? 
That,  and  not  anything  else,  was  the  key  for  my  first 
moves.  And  at  last  a  clerk  crossed  to  our  table, 
touched  Whipple's  arm  and  presented  a  sheet  of  paper. 

"I'll  read  the  total,  gentlemen."  The  president 
stared  at  the  sheet  he  held,  moistened  his  lips,  gulped, 


WORTH  GILBERT  7 

gasped,  "I — I'd  no  idea  it  was  so  much!"  and  finished 
in  a  changed  voice,  "nine  hundred  and  eighty  seven 
thousand,  two  hundred  and  thirty  four  dollars." 

A  deathlike  hush.  Dykeman's  mere  look  was  a  call 
for  the  ambulance;  Anson  slumped  in  his  chair;  little 
old  Sillsbee  sat  twisted  away  so  that  his  face  was  in 
shadow,  but  the  knuckles  showed  bone  white  where  his 
hand  gripped  the  table  top.  None  of  them  seemed 
able  to  speak;  the  young  voice  that  broke  startlingly 
on  the  stillness  had  the  effect  of  scaring  the  others, 
with  its  tone  of  nonchalance,  rather  than  reassuring 
them.  Worth  Gilbert  leaned  forward  and  looked 
round  in  my  direction  with, 

"This  is  beginning  to  be  interesting.  What  do  the 
police  say  of  it  ?" 

"We've  not  thought  well  to  notify  them  yet." 
Whipple's  eye  consulted  that  of  his  cashier  and  he 
broke  off.  Quietly  the  clerks  got  out  with  the  last 
load  of  securities;  Knapp  closed  the  door  carefully 
behind  them,  and  as  he  returned  to  us,  Whipple  re 
peated,  "I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  big,"  his  tone  almost 
pleading  as  he  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  "But  I 
felt  from  the  first  that  we'd  better  keep  this  thing  to 
ourselves.  We  don't  want  a  run  on  the  bank,  and 
under  present  financial  conditions,  almost  anything 
might  start  one.  But — almost  a  million  dollars!" 

He  seemed  unable  to  go  on ;  none  of  the  other  men 
at  the  table  had  anything  to  offer.  It  was  the  silent 
youngster,  the  outsider,  who  spoke  again. 

"I  suppose  Clayte  was  bonded — for  what  that's 
worth?" 

"Fifteen  thousand  dollars,"  Knapp.  the  cashier,  gave 
the  information  dully.  The  sum  sounded  pitiful  be- 


8       THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

side  that  which,  we  were  to  understand,  had  traveled 
out  of  the  bank  as  currency  and  unregistered  securities 
in  Clayte's  suitcase. 

"Bonding  company  will  hound  him,  won't  they?" 
young  Gilbert  put  it  bluntly.  "Will  the  Clearing 
House  help  you  out?"  in  the  tone  of  one  discussing  a 
lost  umbrella. 

"Not  much  chance — now."  Whipple's  face  was 
sickly.  "You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  we  are  going 
to  get  little  help  from  outside.  I  want  you  to  all  stand 
by  me  now — keep  this  quiet — among  ourselves — " 

"Among  ourselves !"  rapped  out  Kirkpatrick.  "Then 
it  leaks — we  have  a  run — and  where  are  you?" 

"No,  no.  Just  long  enough  to  give  Boyne  here  a 
chance  to  recover  our  money  without  publicity — try  it 
out,  anyhow." 

"Well,"  said  Anson  sullenly,  "that's  what  he's  paid 
for.  How  long  is  it  going  to  take  him?" 

I  made  no  attempt  to  answer  that  fool  question; 
Cummings  spoke  for  me,  lawyer  fashion,  straddling 
the  question,  bringing  up-  the  arguments  pro  and  con. 

"Your  detective  asks  for  publicity  to  assist  his 
search.  You  refuse  it.  Then  you've  got  to  be  in 
dulgent  with  him  in  the  matter  of  time.  Understand 
me,  you  may  be  right;  I'm  not  questioning  the  wisdom 
of  secrecy,  though  as  a  lawyer  I  generally  think  the 
sooner  you  get  to  the  police  with  a  crime  the  better. 
You  all  can  see  how  publicity  and  a  sizable  reward 
offered  would  give  Mr.  Boyne  a  hundred  thousand 
assistants — conscious  and  unconscious — to  help  nab 
Clayte." 

"And  we'd  be  a  busted  bank  before  you  found  him-," 


WORTH  GILBERT  9 

groaned  Knapp.  "We've  got  to  keep  this  thing  to 
ourselves.  I  agree  with  Whipple." 

"It's  all  we  can  do,"  the  president  repeated. 

"Suppose  a  State  bank  examiner  walks  in  on  you 
Monday?"  demanded  the  attorney. 

"We  take  that  chance — that  serious  chance,"  re 
plied  Whipple  solemnly. 

Silence  after  that  again  till  Cummings  spoke. 

"Gentlemen,  there  are  here  present  twelve  of  the 
principal  stockholders  of  the  bank."  He  paused  a 
moment  to  estimate.  "The  capital  is  practically  rep 
resented.  Speaking  as  your  legal  advisor,  I  am  obliged 
to  say  that  you  should  not  let  the  bank  take  such  a 
risk  as  Mr.  Whipple  suggests.  You  are  threatened 
with  a  staggering  loss,  but,  after  all,  a  high  percent  of 
money  lost  by  defalcations  is  recovered — made  good — 
wholly  or  in  part." 

"Nearly  a  million  dollars !"  croaked  did  Sillsbee. 

"Yes,  yes,  of  course,"  Cummings  agreed  hastily; 
"the  larger  amount's  against  you.  The  men  who  can 
engineer  such  a  theft  are  almost  as  strong  as  you  are. 
You've  got  to  make  every  edge  cut — use  every  weapon 
that's  at  hand.  And  most  of  all,  gentlemen,  you've 
got  to  stand  together.  No  dissensions.  As  a  tem 
porary  expedient — to  keep  the  bank  sufficiently  under 
cover  and  still  allow  Boyne  the  publicity  he  needs — 
replace  this  money  pro  rata  among  yourselves.  That 
wouldn't  clean  any  of  you.  Announce  a  small  defal 
cation,  such  as  Clayte's  bond  would  cover,  so  you 
could  collect  there ;  use  all  the  machinery  of  the  police. 
Then  when  Clayte's  found,  the  money  recovered,  you 
reimburse  yourselves." 


io      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"But  if  he's  never  found!  If  it's  never  recovered?" 
Knapp  asked  huskily;  he  was  least  able  of  any  man 
in  the  room  to  stand  the  loss. 

"What  do  you  say,  Gilbert?"  The  attorney  looked 
toward  the  young  man,  who,  all  through  the  discus 
sion,  had  been  staring  straight  ahead  of  him.  He 
came  round  to  the  lawyer's  question  like  one  roused 
from  other  thoughts,  and  agreed  shortly. 

"Not  a  bad  bet." 

"Well — Boyne — "  Whipple  was  giving  way  an 
inch  at  a  time. 

"It's  a  peculiar  case,"  I  began,  then  caught  myself 
up  with,  "All  cases  are  peculiar.  The  big  point  here 
is  to  get  our  man  before  he  can  get  rid  of  the  money. 
We  were  close  after  Clayte;  even  that  locked  room 
in  the  St.  Dunstan  needn't  have  stopped  us.  If  he 
wasn't  in  it,  he  was  somewhere  not  far  outside  it. 
He'd  had  no  time  to  make  a  real  getaway.  All  I 
needed  to  lay  hands  on  him  was  a  good  description.'' 

"Description?"  echoed  Whipple.  "Your  agency's 
got  descriptions  on  file — thumb  prints — photographs 
— of  every  employee  of  this  bank." 

"Every  one  of  'em  but  Clayte,"  I  said.  "When  I 
came  to  look  up  the  files,  there  wasn't  a  thing  on  him. 
Don't  think  I  ever  laid  eyes  on  the  man  myself." 

A  description  of  Edward  Clayte?  Every  man  at 
the  table — even  old  Sillsbee — sat  up  and  opened  his 
mouth  to  give  one;  but  Knapp  beat  them  to  it,  with, 

"Clayte's  worked  in  this  bank  eight  years.  We  all 
know  him.  You  can  get  just  as  many  good  descrip 
tions  as  there  are  people  on  our  payroll  or  directors 
in  this  room — and  plenty  more  at  the  St.  Dunstan, 
I'll  be  bound." 


WORTH  GILBERT  11 

"You  think  so?"  I  said  wearily.  "I  have  not  been 
idle,  gentlemen;  I  have  interviewed  his  associates. 
Listen  to  this;  it  is  a  composite  of  the  best  I've  been 
able  to  get"  I  read :  "Edward  Clayte ;  height  about 
five  feet  seven  or  eight;  weight  between  one  hundred 
and  forty  and  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds ;  age  some 
where  around  forty;  smooth  face;  medium  complex 
ion,  fairish;  brown  hair;  light  eyes;  apparently  com 
monplace  features;  dressed  neatly  in  blue  business 
suit,  black  shoes,  black  derby  hat — " 

"Wait  a  minute,"  interposed  Knapp.  "Is  that  what 
they  gave  you  at  the  St.  Dunstan — what  he  was  wear 
ing  when  he  came  in?" 

I  nodded. 

"Well,  I'd  have  said  he  had  on  tan  shoes  and  a  fe 
dora.  He  did — or  was  that  yesterday?  But  aside 
from  that,  it's  a  perfect  description;  brings  the  man 
right  up  before  me." 

I  heard  a  chuckle  from  Worth  Gilbert. 

"That  description,"  I  said,  "is  gibberish;  mere 
words.  Would  it  bring  Clayte  up  before  any  one 
who  had  never  seen  him?  Ask  Captain  Gilbert,  who 
doesn't  know  the  man.  I  say  that's  a  list  of  the  points 
at  which  he  resembles  every  third  office  man  you  meet 
on  the  street.  What  I  want  is  the  points  at  which 
he'd  differ.  You  have  all  known  Clayte  for  years; 
forget  his  regularities,  and  tell  me  his  peculiarities — 
looks,  manners,  dress  or  habits." 

There  was  a  long  pause,  broken  finally  by  Whipple. 

"He  never  smoked,"  said  the  bank  president. 

"Occasionally  he  did,"  contradicted  Knapp,  and  the 
pause  continued  till  I  asked, 

•"Any  peculiarities  of  clothing?'' 


12      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Oh,  yes,"  said  Whipple.  "Very  neat.  Usually 
blue  serge." 

"But  sometimes  gray,"  added  Knapp,  heavily,  and 
old  Sillsbee  piped  in, 

"I've  seen  that  feller  wear  pin-check;  I  know  I 
have." 

I  was  fed  up  on  clothes. 

"How  did  he  brush  his  hair?"  I  questioned. 

"Smoothed  down  from  a  part  high  on  the  left," 
Knapp  came  back  promptly. 

"On  the  right,"  boomed  old  Anson  from  the  foot 
of  the  table. 

"Sometimes — yes — I  guess  he  did,"  Knapp  con 
ceded  hesitantly. 

"Oh,  well  then,  what  color  was  it?  Maybe  you  can 
agree  better  on  that." 

"Sort  of  mousy  color,"  Knapp  thought. 

"O  Lord!  Mousy  colored!"  groaned  Dykeman 
under  his  breath.  "Listen  to  'em!" 

"Well,  isn't  it?"     Knapp  was  a  bit  stung. 

"House  mousy,  or  field  mousy?"  Cummings  wanted 
to  know. 

"Knapp's  right  enough,"  Whipple  said  with  dignity. 
"The  man's  hair  is  a  medium  brown — indeterminate 
brown."  He  glanced  around  the  table  at  the  heads  of 
hair  under  the  electric  lights.  "Something  the  color 
of  Merrill's,"  and  a  director  began  stroking  his  hair 
nervously. 

"No,  no;  darker  than  Merrill's,"  broke  in  Kirk- 
patrick.  "Isn't  it,  Knapp?" 

"Why,  I  was  going,  to  say  lighter,"  admitted  the 
cashier,  discouragedly. 


WORTH  GILBERT  13 

"Never  mind,"  I  sighed.  "Forget  the  hair.  Come 
on — what  color  are  his  eyes?'* 

"Blue,"  said  Whipple. 

"Gray,"  said  Knapp. 

"Brown,"  said  Kirkpatrick. 

They  all  spoke  in  one  breath.  And  as  I  despair 
ingly  laid  down  my  pencil,  the  last  man  repeated 
firmly, 

"Brown.  But — they  might  be  light  brown — or 
hazel,  y'know." 

"But,  after  all,  Boyne,"  Whipple  appealed  to  me, 
"you've  got  a  fairly  accurate  description  of  the  man, 
one  that  fits  him  all  right." 

"Does  it?  Then  he's  description  proof.  No  moles, 
scars  or  visible  marks?"  I  suggested  desperately. 

"None."     There  was  a  negative  shaking  of  heads. 

"No  mannerisms?  No  little  tricks,  such  as  a  twist 
of  the  mouth,  a  mincing  step,  or  a  head  carried  on 
one  side?" 

More  shakes  of  negation  from  the  men  who  knew 
Clayte. 

"Well,  at  least  you  can  tell  me  who  are  his  friends 
— his  intimates?" 

Nobody  answered. 

"He  must  have  friends?"  I  urged. 

"He  hasn't,"  maintained  Whipple.  "Knapp  is  as 
close  to  him  as  any  man  in  San  Francisco." 

The  cashier  squirmed,  but  said  nothing. 

"But  outside  the  bank.     Who  were  his  associates  ?" 

"Don't  think  he  had  any,"  from  Knapp. 

"Relatives?" 

"None— I  know  he  hadn't." 


14      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Girls?     Lord!     Didn't  he  have  a  girl?" 

"Not  a  girl." 

"No  associates — no  girl?  For  the  love  of  Mike, 
what  could  such  a  man  intend  to  do  with  all  that 
money?"  I  gasped.  "Where  did  he  spend  his  time 
when  he  wasn't  in  the  bank?" 

Whipple  looked  at  his  cashier  for  an  answer.  But 
Knapp  was  sitting,  head  down,  in  a  painful  brown 
study,  and  the  president  himself  began  haltingly. 

"Why,  he  was  perhaps  the  one  man  in  the  bank  that 
I  knew  least  about.  The  truth  is  he  was  so  unobjec 
tionable  in  every  way,  personally  unobtrusive,  quite 
unimportant  and  uninteresting;  really — er — un-every- 
thing,  such  a — a — " 

"Shadow,"  Cummings  suggested. 

"That's  the  word. — shadow — I  never  thought  to 
inquire  where  he  went  till  he  walked  out  of  here  this 
noon  with  the  bank's  money  crammed  in  that  suit- 
case." 

"Was  the  Saturday  suitcase  a  regular  thing?"  I 
asked,  and  Whipple  looked  bewildered.  But  Knapp 
woke  up  with, 

"Oh,  yes.  For  years.  Studious  fellow.  Books  to 
be  exchanged  at  the  public  library,  I  think.  No — " 
Knapp  spoke  heavily.  "Come  to  think  of  it,  guess 
that  was  special  work.  He  told  me  once  he  was 
taking  some  sort  of  correspondence  course." 

"Special  work!"  chuckled  Worth  Gilbert.  "I'll  tell 
the  world!" 

"Oh,  well,  give  me  a  description  of  the  suitcase," 
I  hurried. 

"Brown.  Sole-leather.  That's  all  I  ever  noticed," 
from  Whipple,  a  bit  stiffly. 


WORTH  GILBERT  15 

"Brass  rings  and  lock,  I  suppose?" 

"Brass  or  nickel;  I  don't  remember.  What'd  you 
say,  Knapp?" 

"I  wouldn't  know  now,  if  it  was  canvas  and  tin," 
replied  the  harried  cashier. 

"Gentlemen,"  I  said,  looking  across  at  the  clock, 
"since  half -past  two  my  men  have  been  watching  docks, 
ferries,  railroad  stations,  every  garage  near  the  St. 
Dunstan,  the  main  highways  out  of  town.  Seven  of 
them  on  the  job,  and  in  the  first  hour  they  made  ten 
arrests,  on  that  description;  arid  every  time,  sure  they 
had  their  man.  They  thought,  just  as  you  seem  to 
think,  that  the  bunch  of  words  described  something. 
We're  getting  nowhere,  gentlemen,  and  time  means 
money  here." 


CHAPTER  II 

SIGHT  UNSEEN 

IN  the  squabble  and  snatch  of  argument,  given  dignity 
only  because  it  concerned  the  recovery  of  near  a 
million  dollars,  we  seemed  to  have  lost  Worth  Gilbert 
entirely.  He  kept  his  seat,  that  chair  he  had  taken 
instantly  when  old  Dykeman  seemed  to  wish  to  have 
it  denied  him ;  but  he  sat  on  it  as  though  it  were  a  lone 
rock  by  the  sea,  I  didn't  suppose  he  was  hearing 
what  we  said  any  more  than  he  would  have  heard  the 
mewing  of  a  lot  of  gulls,  when,  on  a  sudden  silence, 
he  burst  out, 

"For  heaven's  sake,  if  you  men  can't  decide  on  any 
thing,  sell  me  the  suitcase!  I'll  buy  it,  as  it  is,  and 
clean  up  the  job." 

"Sell  you — the  suitcase — Clayte's  suitcase?"  They 
sat  up  on  the  edge  of  their  chairs ;  bewildered,  incred 
ulous,  hostile.  Such  a  bunch  is  very  like  a  herd  of 
cattle;  anything  they  don't  understand  scares  them. 
Even  the  attorney  studied  young  Gilbert  with  curious 
interest.  I  was  mortal  glad  I  hadn't  said  what  was 
the  fact,  that  with  the  naming  of  the  enormous  sum 
lost  I  was  certain  this  was  a  sizable  conspiracy  with 
long-laid  plans.  They  were  mistrustful  enough  as 
Whipple  finally  questioned, 

"Is  this  a  bona-fide  offer,  Captain  Gilbert?"  and 
Dykeman  came  in  after  him. 

16 


SIGHT  UNSEEN  17 

"A  gambler's  chance  at  stolen  money — is  that  what 
you  figure  on  buying,  sir?  Is  that  it?"  And  heavy- 
faced  Anson  asked  bluntly, 

"Who's  to  set  the  price  on  it?  You  or  us ?  There's 
practically  a  million  dollars  in  that  suitcase.  It  be 
longs  to  the  bank.  If  you've  got  an  idea  that  you  can 
buy  up  the  chance  of  it  for  about  fifty  percent — you're 
mistaken.  We  have  too  much  faith  in  Mr.  Boyne 
and  his  agency  for  that.  Why,  at  this  moment,  one 
of  his  men  may  have  laid  hands  on  Clayte,  or  found 
the  man  who  planned — " 

He  stopped  with  his  mouth  open.  I  saw  the  same 
suspicion  that  had  taken  his  breath  away  grip  mo 
mentarily  every  man  at  the  table.  A  hint  of  it  was 
in  Whipple's  voice  as  he  asked,  gravely : 

"Do  you  bind  yourself  to  pursue  Clayte  and  bring 
him,  if  possible,  to  justice?" 

"Bind  myself  to  nothing.  I'll  give  eight  hundred 
thousand  dollars  for  that  suitcase." 

He  fumbled  in  his  pocket  with  an  interrogative  look 
at  Whipple,  and,  "May  I  smoke  in  here?"  and  lit  a 
cigarette  without  waiting  a  reply. 

Banking  institutions  take  some  pains  to  keep  in 
their  employ  no  young  men  who  are  known  to  play 
poker;  but  a  poker  face  at  that  board  would  have  ac 
quired  more  than  its  share  of  dignity.  As  it  was,  you 
could  see,  almost  as  though  written  there,  the  agoniz 
ing  doubt  running  riot  in  their  faces  as  to  whether 
Worth  Gilbert  was  a  young  hero  coming  to  the  bank's 
rescue,  or  a  con  man  playing  them  for  suckers.  It 
was  Knapp  who  said  at  last,  huskily, 

"I  think  we  should  close  with  Captain  Gilbert's 
offer."  The  cashier  had  a  considerable  family,  and  I 


18      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

knew  his  recently  bought  Pacific  Avenue  home  was  not 
all  paid  for. 

"We  might  consider  it,"  Whipple  glanced  doubt 
fully  at  his  associates.  "If  everything  else  fails,  this 
might  be  a  way  out  of  the  difficulty  for  us." 

If  everything  else  failed!  President  Whipple  was 
certainly  no  poker  player.  Worth  Gilbert  gave  one 
swift  look  about  the  ring  of  faces,  pushed  a  brown, 
muscular  left  hand  out  on  the  table  top,  glancing  at 
the  wrist  watch  there,  and  suggested  brusquely, 

"Think  it  over.  My  offer  holds  for  fifteen  minutes. 
Time  to  get  at  all  the  angles  of  the  case.  Huh! 
Gentlemen!  I  seem  to  have  started  something!" 

For  the  directors  and  stockholders  of  the  Van  Ness 
Avenue  Savings  Bank  were  at  that  moment  almost  as 
yappy  and  snappy  as  a  wolf  pack.  Dykeman  wanted 
to  know  about  the  one  hundred  and  eighty  seven  thou 
sand  odd  dollars  not  covered  by  Worth's  offer — did 
they  lose  that  ?  Knapp  was  urging  that  Clayte's  bond, 
when  they'd  collected,  would  shade  the  loss;  Whipple 
reminding  them  that  they'd  have  to  spend  a  good  deal 
— maybe  a  great  deal — on  the  recovery  of  the  suit 
case;  money  that  Worth  Gilbert  would  have  to  spend 
instead  if  they  sold  to  him;  and  finally  an  ugly  mutter 
from  somewhere  that  maybe  young  Gilbert  wouldn't 
have  to  spend  so  very  much  to  recover  that  suitcase 
— maybe  he  wouldn't ! 

The  tall  young  fellow  looked  thoughtfully  at  his 
watch  now  and  again.  Cummings  and  I  chipped  into 
the  thickest  of  the  row  and  convinced  them  that  he 
meant  what  he  said,  not  only  by  his  offer,  but  by  its 
time  limit. 

"How  about  publicity,  if  this  goes?"  Whipple  sud- 


SIGHT  UNSEEN  19 

denly  interrogated,  raising  his  voice  to  top  the  pack- 
yell.  "Even  with  eight  hundred  thousand  dollars  in 
our  vaults,  a  run's  not  a  thing  that  does  a  bank  any 
good.  I  suppose,"  stretching  up  his  head  to  see  across 
his  noisy  associates,  "I  suppose,  Captain  Gilbert,  you'll 
be  retaining  Boyne's  agency?  In  that  case,  do  you 
give  him  the  publicity  he  wants  ?" 

"Course  he  does!"  Dykeman  hissed.  "Can't  you 
see?  Damn  fool  wants  his  name  in  the  papers! 
Rotten  story  like  this — about  some  lunatic  buying  a 
suitcase  with  a  million  in  it — would  ruin  any  bank 
if  it  got  into  print."  Dykeman' s  breath  gave  out. 
"And — it's — it's — just  the  kind  of  story  the  accursed 
yellow  press  would  eat  up.  Let  it  alone,  Whipple. 
Let  his  damned  offer  alone.  There's  a  joker  in  it 
somewhere." 

"There  won't  be  any  offer  in  about  three  minutes," 
Cummings  quietly  reminded  them.  "If  you'd  asked 
my  opinion — and  giving  you  opinions  is  what  you  pay 
me  a  salary  for — I'd  have  said  close  with  him  while 
you  can." 

Whipple  gave  me  an  agonized  glance.  I  nodded 
affirmatively.  He  put  the  question  to  vote  in  a  breath ; 
the  ayes  had  it,  old  Dykeman  shouting  after  them  in 
an  angry  squeak. 

"No!  No!"  and  adding  as  he  glared  about  him, 
"I'd  like  to  be  able  to  look  a  newspaper  in  the  face; 
but  never  again!  Never  again!" 

I  made  my  way  over  to  Gilbert  and  stood  in  front 
of  him. 

"You've  bought  something,  boy,"  I  said.  "If  you 
mean  to  keep  me  on  as  your  detective,  you  can  assure 
these  people  that  I'll  do  my  darndest  to  give  informa- 


20     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

tion  to  the  police  and  keep  it  out  of  the  papers.  What's 
happened  here  won't  get  any  further  than  this  room 
— through  me." 

"You're  hired,  Jerry  Boyne."  Gilbert  slapped  me 
on  the  back  affectionately.  After  all,  he  hadn't 
changed  so  much  in  his  four  years  over  there;  I  be 
gan  to  see  more  than  traces  of  the  enthusiastic  young 
ster  to  whom  I  used  to  spin  detective  yarns  in  the 
grill  at  the  St.  Francis  or  on  the  rocks  by  the  Cliff 
House.  "Sure,  we'll  keep  it  out  of  the  papers.  Suits 
me.  I'd  rather  not  pose  as  the  fool  soon  parted  from 
his  money." 

The  remark  was  apropos;  Knapp  had  feverishly 
beckoned  the  lawyer  over  to  a  little  side  desk;  they 
were  down  at  it,  the  light  snapped  on,  writing,  trying 
to  frame  up  an  agreement  that  would  hold  water. 
One  by  one  the  others  went  and  looked  on  nervously 
as  they  worked;  by  the  time  they'd  finished  some 
thing,  everybody'd  seen  it  but  Worth;  and  when  it 
was  finally  put  in  his^  hands,  all  he  seemed  to  notice 
was  the  one  point  of  the  time  they'd  set  for  payment. 

"It'll  be  quite  some  stunt  to  get  the  amount  to 
gether  by  ten  o'clock  Monday,"  he  said  slowly. 
"There  are  securities  to  be  converted — " 

He  paused,  and  looked  up  on  a  queer  hush. 

"Securities?"  croaked  Dykeman.  "To  be  con 
verted—?  Oh!" 

"Yes,"  in  some  surprise.  "Or  would  the  bank 
prefer  to  have  them  turned  over  in  their  present 
form?" 

Again  a  strained  moment,  broken  by  Whipple's 
nervous, 


SIGHT  UNSEEN  21 

"Maybe  that  would  be  better,"  and  a  quickly  sup 
pressed  chuckle  from  Cummings. 

The  agreement  was  in  duplicate.  It  gave  Worth 
Gilbert  complete  ownership  of  a  described  sole-leather 
suitcase  and  its  listed  contents,  and,  as  he  had  de 
manded,  it  bound  him  to  nothing  save  the  payment. 
Cummings  said  frankly  that  the  transaction  was 
illegal  from  end  to  end,  and  that  any  assurance  as  to 
the  bank's  ceasing  to  pursue  Clayte  would  amount  to 
compounding  a  felony.  Yet  we  all  signed  solemnly, 
the  lawyer  and  I  as  witnesses.  A  financier's  idea  of 
indecency  is  something  about  money  which  hasn't 
formerly  been  done.  The  directors  got  sorer  and 
sorer  as  Worth  Gilbert's  cheerfulness  increased. 

"Acts  as  though  it  were  a  damn'  crap  game,"  I 
heard  Dykeman  muttering  to  Sillsbee,  who  came  back 
vacuously. 

"Craps  ? — they  say  our  boys  did  shoot  craps  a  good 
deal  over  there.  Well — uh — they  were  risking  their 
lives." 

And  that's  as  near  as  any  of  them  came,  I  suppose, 
to  understanding  how  a  weariness  of  the  little  inter 
weaving  plans  of  tamed  men  had  pushed  Worth  Gil 
bert  into  carelessly  staking  his  birthright  on  a  chance 
that  might  lend  interest  to  life,  a  hazard  big  enough 
to  breeze  the  staleness  out  of  things  for  him. 

We  were  leaving  the  bank,  Gilbert  and  I  ahead, 
Cummings  right  at  my  boy's  shoulder,  the  others  hold 
ing  back  to  speak  together,  (bitterly  enough,  if  I  am 
any  guesser)  when  Worth  said  suddenly, 

"You  mentioned  in  there  it's  being  illegal  for  the 
bank  to  give  up  the  pursuit  of  Clayte.  Seems  funny 


22      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

to  me,  but  I  suppose  you  know  what  you're  talking 
about.  Anyhow'' — he  was  lighting  another  cigarette 
and  he  glanced  sharply  at  Cummings  across  it — "any 
how,  they  won't  waste  their  money  hunting  Clayte 
now,  should  you  say?  That's  my  job.  That's  where 
I  get  my  cash  back." 

"Oh,  that's  where,  is  it?"  The  lawyer's  dry  tone 
might  have  been  regarded  as  humorous.  We  stood  in 
the  deep  doorway,  hunching  coat  collars,  looking  into 
the  foggy  street.  Worth's  interest  in  life  seemed  to 
be  freshening  moment  by  moment. 

"Yes,"  he  agreed  briskly.  "I'm  going  to  keep  you 
and  Boyne  busy  for  a  while.  You'll  have  to  show  me 
how  to  hustle  the  payment  for  those  Shy  locks,  and 
Jerry's  got  to  find  the  suitcase,  so  I  can  eat.  But  I'll 
help  him." 

Cummings  stared  at  the  boy. 

"Gilbert,"  he  said,  "where  are  you  going? — right 
now,  I  mean." 

"To  Boyne's  office." 

We  stepped  out  to  the  street  where  the  line  of 
limousines  waited  for  the  old  fellows  inside,  my  own 
battleship-gray  roadster,  p'retty  well  hammered  but  still 
a  mighty  capable  machine,  far  down  at  the  end.  As 
Worth  moved  with  me  toward  it,  the  lawyer  walked 
at  his  elbow. 

"Seat  for  me?"  he  glanced  at  the  car.  "I've  a  few 
words  of  one  syllable  to  say  to  this  young  man — 
council  that  I  ought  to  get  in  as  early  as  possible." 

I  looked  at  little  Pete  dozing  behind  the  wheel,  and 
answered, 

"Take   you    all    right,    if    I    could    drive.     But    I 


SIGHT  UNSEEN  23 

sprained  my  thumb  on  a  window  lock  looking  over  that 
room  at  the  St.  Dunstan." 

"I'll  drive."  Worth  had  circled  the  car  with  surpris 
ing  quickness  for  so  large  a  man.  I  saw  him  on  the 
other  side,  waiting  for  Pete  to  get  out  so  he  could  get 
in.  Curious  the  intimate,  understanding  look  he  gave 
the  monkey  as  he  flipped  a  coin  at  him  with,  "Buy 
something  to  burn,  kid."  Pete's  idea  of  Worth  Gil 
bert  would  be  quite  different  from  that  of  the  directors 
in  there.  After  all,  human  beings  are  only  what  we 
see  them  from  our  varying  angles.  Pete  slid  down, 
looking  back  to  the  last  at  the  tall  young  fellow  who 
was  taking  his  place  at  the  wheel.  Cummings  and  I 
got  in  and  we  were  off. 

There  in  the  machine,  my  new  boss  driving,  Cum 
mings  sitting  next  him,  I  at  the  further  side,  began  the 
keen,  cool  probe  after  a  truth  which  to  me  lay  very 
evidently  on  the  surface.  Any  one,  I  would  have  said, 
might  see  with  half  an  eye  that  Worth  Gilbert  had 
bought  Clayte's  suitcase  so  that  he  could  get  a  thrill 
out  of  hunting  for  it.  Cummings  I  knew  had  in 
charge  all  the  boy's  Pacific  Coast  holdings;  and  since 
his  mother's  death  during  the  first  year  of  the  war, 
these  were  large.  Worth  manifested  toward  them 
and  the  man  who  spoke  to  him  of  them  the  indifference, 
almost  contempt,  of  an  impatient  young  soul  who  in 
the  years  just  behind  him,  had  often  wagered  his  chance 
of  his  morning's  coffee  against  some  other  fellow's 
month's  pay  feeling  that  he  was  putting  up  double. 

It  seemed  the  sense  of  ownership  was  dulled  in  one 
who  had  seen  magnificent  properties  masterless,  or 
apparently  belonging  to  some  limp,  bloodstained  bundle 


24     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

of  flesh  that  lay  in  one  of  the  rooms.  In  vain  Cum- 
mings  urged  the  state  of  the  market,  repeating  with 
more  particularity  and  force  what  Whipple  had  said. 
The  mines  were  tied  up  by  strike;  their  stock,  while 
perfectly  good,  was  down  to  twenty  cents  on  the  dollar; 
to  sell  now  would  be  madness.  Worth  only  repeated 
doggedly. 

"I've  got  to  have  the  money — Monday  morning — 
ten  o'clock.  I  don't  care  what  you  sell — or  hock. 
Get  it." 

"See  here,"  the  lawyer  was  puzzled,  and  therefore 
unprofessionally  out  of  temper.  "Even  sacrificing 
your  stuff  in  the  most  outrageous  manner,  I  couldn't 
realize  enough — not  by  ten  o'clock  Monday.  You'll 
have  to  go  to  your  father.  You  can  catoh  the  five- 
five  for  Santa  Ysobel." 

I  could  see  Worth  choke  back  a  hot-tempered  re 
fusal  of  the  suggestion.  The  funds  he'd  got  to  have, 
even  if  he  went  through  some  humiliation  to  get  them. 

"At  "-hat,"  he  said  slowly,  "father  wouldn't  have  any 
great  amount  of  cash  on  hand.  Say  I  went  to  him 
with  the  story — and  took  the  cat-hauling  he'll  give 
me — should  I  be  much  better  off?" 

"Sure  you  would."  Cummings  leaned  back.  I  saw 
he  considered  his  point  made.  "Whipple  would  rather 
take  their  own  bank  stock  than  anything  else.  Your 
father  has  just  acquired  a  big  block  of  it.  Act  while 
there's  time.  Better  go  out  there  and  see  him  now — 
at  once." 

"I'll  think  about  it,"  Worth  nodded.  "You  dig  for 
me  what  you  can  and  never  quit."  And  he  applied 
himself  to  the  demands  of  the  downtown  traffic. 


SIGHT  UNSEEN  25 

"Well,"  Cummings  said,  "drop  me  at  the  next  cor 
ner,  please.  I've  got  an  engagement  with  a  man 
here." 

Worth  swung  in  and  stopped.  Cummings  left  us. 
As  we  began  to  worm  a  slow  way  toward  my  office, 
I  suggested, 

"You'll  come  upstairs  with  me,  and — er — sort  of 
outline  a  policy?  I  ought  to  have  any  possible  infor 
mation  you  can  give  me,  so's  not  to  make  any  more 
wrong  moves  than  we  have  to." 

"Information  ?"  he  echoed,  and  I  hastened  to  amend, 

"I  mean  whatever  notion  you've  got.  Your  theory, 
you  know — " 

"Not  a  notion.  Not  a  theory."  He  shook  his 
head,  eyes  on  the  traffic  cop.  "That's  your  part." 

I  sat  there  somewhat  flabbergasted.  After  all,  I 
hadn't  fully  believed  that  the  boy  had  absolutely 
nothing  to  go  on,  that  he  had  bought  purely  at  a  whim, 
put  up  eight  hundred  thousand  dollars  on  my  skill  at 
running  down  a  criminal.  It  sort  of  crumpled  me  up. 
I  said  so.  He  laughed  a  little,  ran  up  to  the  curb  at 
the  Phelan  building,  cut  out  the  engine,  set  the  brake 
and  turned  to  me  with, 

"Don't  worry.  I'm  getting  what  I  paid  for — or 
what  I'm  going  to  pay  for.  And  I've  got  to  go  right 
after  the  money.  Suppose  I  meet  you,  say,  at  ten 
o'clock  to-night?" 

"Suits  me." 

"At  Tait's.  Reserve  a  table,  will  you,  and  we'll 
have  supper." 

"You're  on,"  I  said.  "And  plenty  to  do  myself 
meantime."  I  hopped  out  on  my  side. 


26      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

Worth  sat  in  the  roadster,  not  hurrying  himself  to 
follow  up  Cummings'  suggestion — the  big  boy,  non- 
communicative,  incurious,  the  question  of  fortune  lost 
or  won  seeming  not  to  trouble  him  at  all.  I  skirted 
the  machine  and  came  round  to  him,  demanding, 

"With  whom  do  you  suppose  Cummings'  engage 
ment  was  ?" 

"Don't  know,  Jerry,  and  don't  care,"  looking  down 
at  me  serenely.  "Why  should  I?"  He  swung  one 
long  leg  free  and  stopped  idly,  half  in  the  car,  half  out. 

"What  if  I  told  you  Cummings'  engagement  was 
with  our  friend  Dykeman — only  Dykeman  doesn't 
know  it  yet?" 

Sowly  he  brought  that  dangling  foot  down  to  the 
pavement,  followed  it  with  the  the  other,  and  faced  me. 
Across  the  blankness  of  his  features  shot  a  joyous 
gleam;  it  spread,  brightening  till  he  was  radiant. 

"I  get  you !"  he  chortled.  "Collusion!  They  think 
I'm  standing  in  with  Clayte — Oh,  boy!" 

He  threw  back  his  head  and  roared. 


CHAPTER  III 

A  WEDDING  PARTY 

I  LOOKED  at  my  watch;  quarter  of  ten;  a  little 
ahead  of  my  appointment.  I  ordered  a  telephone 
extension  brought  to  this  corner  table  I  had  reserved 
at  Tait's  and  got  in  touch  with  my  office;  then  with 
the  knowledge  that  any  new  kink  in  the  case  would  be 
reported  immediately  to  me,  I  relaxed  to  watch  the 
early  supper  crowd  arrive:  Women  in  picture  hats 
and  bare  or  half -bare  shoulders  with  rich  wraps  slip 
ping  off  them ;  hum  of  voices ;  the  clatter  of  silver  and 
china;  waiters  beginning  to  wake  up  and  dart  about 
settling  new  arrivals.  And  I  wondered  idly  what  sort 
of  party  would  come  to  sit  around  one  long  table  across 
from  me  specially  decorated  with  pale  tinted  flowers. 
There  was  a  sense  of  warmth  and  comfort  at  my 
heart.  I  am  a  lonely  man;  the  people  I  take  to  seem 
to  have  a  way  of  passing  on  in  the  stream  of  life — or 
death — leaving  me  with  a  few  well-thumbed  volumes 
on  a  shelf  in  my  rooms  for  consolation.  Walt  Whit 
man,  Montaigne,  The  Bard,  two  or  three  other  lesser 
poets,  and  you've  the  friends  that  have  stayed  by  me 
for  thirty  years.  And  so,  having  met  up  with  Worth 
Gilbert  when  he  was  a  youngster,  at  the  time  his 
mother  was  living  in  San  Francisco  to  get  a  residence 
for  her  divorce  proceedings,  having  loved  the  boy  and 
got  I  am  sure  some  measure  of  affection  in  return,  it 
seemed  almost  too  much  to  ask  of  fate  that  he  should 
come  back  into  my  days,  plunge  into  such  a  proposition 

27 


28     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

as  this  bank  robbery,  right  at  my  elbow  as  it  were, 
and  make  himself  my  employer — my  boss. 

I  was  a  subordinate  in  the  agency  in  those  old  times 
when  he  and  I  used  to  chin  about  the  business,  and  his 
idea  (I  always  discussed  it  gravely  and  respectfully 
with  him)  was  to  grow  up  and  go  into  partnership 
with  me.  Well,  we  were^  partners  now. 

Past  ten,  nearly  five  minutes.  Where  was  he? 
What  up  to  ?  Would  he  miss  his  appointment  ?  No, 
I  caught  a  glimpse  of  him  at  the  door  getting  rid  of 
hat  and  overcoat,  pausing  a  moment  with  tall  bent  head 
to  banter  Rose,  the  little  Chinese  girl  who  usually 
drifted  from  table  to  table  with  cigars  and  cigarettes. 
Then  he  was  coming  down  the  room. 

A  man  who  takes  his  own  path  in  life,  and  will  walk 
it  though  hell  bar  the  way,  never  explaining,  never 
extenuating,  never  excusing  his  course — something 
seems  to  emanate  from  such  a  chap  that  draws  all  eyes 
after  him  in  a  public  place  in  a  look  between  fear  and 
desire.  Sitting  there  in  Tait's,  my  view  of  Worth  cut 
off  now  by  a  waiter  with  a  high-carried  tray,  again  by 
people  passing  to  tables  for  whom  he  halted,  I  had  a 
good  chance  to  see  the  turning  of  eyeballs  that  followed 
him,  the  furtive  glances  that  snatched  at  him,  or  fon 
dled  him,  or  would  have  probed  him ;  the  admiration  of 
the  women,  the  envy  of  the  men,  curiously  alike  in 
that  it  was  sometimes  veiled  and  half  wistful,  some 
times  very  open.  Drifters — you  see  so  many  of  the 
sort  in  a  restaurant — why  wouldn't  they  hanker  after 
the  strength  and  ruthlessness  of  a  man  like  Worth? 
And  the  poor  prunes,  how  little  they  knew  him !  As 
my  friend  Walt  would  say,  he  wasn't  out  after  any  of 
the  old,  smooth  prizes  they  cared  for.  And  win  or  lose 


A  WEDDING  PARTY  29 

he  would  still  be  a  victor,  for  all  he  and  his  sort  demand 
is  freedom,  and  the  joy  of  the  game.  So  he  came  on  to 
me. 

I  noticed,  a  little  startled,  as  he  slumped  into  his 
chair  with  a  grunt  of  greeting,  that  his  cheek  was 
somehow  gaunt  and  pale  under  the  tan ;  the  blue  fire  of 
his  eyes  only  smoldered,  and  I  pulled  back  his  chair 
with, 

"You  look  as  if  you  hadn't  had  any  dinner." 

"I  haven't."  He  gave  a  man-size  order  for  food 
and  turned  back  from  it  to  listen  to  me.  "I'll  be 
nearer  human  when  I  get  some  grub  under  my  belt." 

My  report  of  what  had  been  done  on  the  case  since 
we  separated  was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  our 
orders,  and  Worth  sailed  into  a  thick,  juicy  steak  while 
I  was  still  explaining  details.  The  orchestra  whanged 
and  blared  and  jazzed  away;  the  people  at  the  other 
tables  noticed  us  or  busied  themselves  noisily  with 
affairs  of  their  own;  Worth  sat  and  enjoyed  his  meal 
with  the  air  of  a  man  feeding  at  a  solitary  country 
tavern.  When  he  had  finished — and  he  took  his  time 
about  it — the  worn,  punished  look  was  gone  from  his 
face;  his  eye  was  bright,  his  tone  nonchalant,  as  he 
lighted  a  cigarette,  remarking, 

"I've  had  one  more  good  dinner.  Food's  a  thing 
you  can  depend  on;  it  doesn't  rake  up  your 
entire  past  record  from  the  time  you  squirmed  into 
this  world,  and  tell  you  what  a  fool  you've  always 
been." 

I  turned  that  over  in  my  mind.  Did  it  mean  that 
he'd  seen  his  father  and  got  a  calling  down  ?  I  wanted 
to  know — and  was  afraid  to  ask.  The  fact  is  I  was 
beginning  to  wake  up  to  a  good  many  things  about 


30     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

my  young  boss.  I  was  intensely  interested  in  his 
reactions  on  people.  So  far,  I'd  seen  him  with 
strangers.  I  wished  that  I  might  have  a  chance  to  ob 
serve  him  among  intimates.  Old  Richardson  who 
founded  our  agency  (and  would  never  knowingly  have 
left  me  at  the  head  of  it,  though  he  did  take  me  in  as 
partner,  finally)  used  to  say  that  the  main  trouble  with 
me  was  I  studied  people  instead  of  cases.  Richardson 
held  that  all  men  are  equal  before  the  detective,  and 
must  be  regarded  only  as  queer  shaped  pieces  to  be 
fitted  together  so  as  to  make  out  a  case.  Richardson 
would  have  gone  as  coolly  about  easing  the  salt  of  the 
earth  into  the  chink  labeled  "murder"  or  "embezzle 
ment,"  as  though  neither  had  been  human.  With  me 
the  personal  equation  always  looms  big,  and  of  course 
he  was  quite  right  in  saying  that  it's  likely  to  get  you 
all  gummed  up. 

The  telephone  on  the  table  before  me  rang.  It  was 
Roberts,  my  secretary,  with  the  word  that  Foster  had 
lifted  the  watch  from  Ocean  View,  the  little  town  at 
the  neck  of  the  peninsula,  where  bay  and  ocean  narrow 
the  passageway  to  one  thoroughfare,  over  which  every 
machine  must  pass  that  goes  by  land  from  San  Fran 
cisco.  With  two  operatives,  he  had  been  on  guard 
there  since  three  o'clock  of  the  afternoon,  holding  up 
blond  men  in  cars,  asking  questions,  taking  notes  and 
numbers.  Now  he  reported  it  was  a  useless  waste  of 
time. 

"Order  him  in,"  I  instructed  .Roberts. 

A  far-too-fat  entertainer  out  on  the  floor  was  writh 
ing  in  the  pangs  of  an  Hawaiian  dance.  It  took  the 
attention  of  the  crowd.  I  watched  the  face  of  my 
companion  for  a  moment,  then, 


A  WEDDING  PARTY  31 

"Worth,"  I  said  a  bit  nervously — after  all,  I  nearly 
had  to  know — "is  your  father  going  to  come  through  ?" 

"Eh?"  He  looked  at  me  startled,  then  put  it  aside 
negligently.  "Oh,  the  money?  No.  I'll  leave  that 
up  to  Cummings."  A  brief  pause.  "We'll  get  a 
wiggle  on  us  and  dig  up  the  suitcase."  He  lifted  his 
tumbler,  stared  at  it,  then  unseeingly  out  across  the 
room,  and  his  lip  twitched  in  a  half  smile.  "I'm  sure 
glad  I  bought  it." 

Looking  at  him,  I  had  no  reason  to  doubt  his  word. 
His  enjoyment  of  the  situation  seemed  to  grow  with 
every  detail  I  brought  up. 

It  was  near  eleven  when  the  party  came  in  to  take 
the  long,  flower-trimmed  table.  Worth's  back  was  to 
the  room ;  I  saw  them  over  his  shoulder,  in  the  lead  a 
tall  blonde,  very  smartly  dressed,  but  not  in  evening 
clothes;  in  severe,  exclusive  street  wear.  The  man 
with  her,  good  looking,  almost  her  own  type,  had  that 
possessive  air  which  seems  somehow  unmistakable — 
and  there  was  a  look  about  the  half  dozen  companions 
after  them,  as  they  settled  themselves  in  a  great 
flurry  of  scraping  chairs,  that  made  me  murmur  with 
a  grin, 

"Bet  that's  a  wedding  party." 

Worth  gave  them  one  quick  glance,  then  came  round 
to  me  with  a  smile. 

"You  win.  Married  at  Santa  Ysobel  this  afternoon. 
Local  society  event.  Whole  place  standing  on  its  hind 
legs,  taking  notice." 

So  he  had  been  down  to  the  little  town  to  see  his 
father  after  all.  And  he  wasn't  going  to  talk  about  it. 
Oh,  well. 

"Friends  of  yours?"  I  asked  perfunctorily,  and  he 


32      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

gave  me  a  queer  look  out  of  the  corners  of  those  wicked 
eyes,  repeating  in  an  enjoying  drawl. 

"Friends?  Oh,  hardly  that.  The  girl  I  was  to 
have  married,  and  Bronson  Vandeman — the  man  she 
has  married." 

I  had  wanted  to  get  a  more  intimate  line  on  the  kid 
— it  seemed  that  here  was  a  chance  with  a  vengeance ! 

"The  rest  of  the  bunch?"  I  suggested.  He  took  a 
leisurely  survey,  and  gave  them  three  words : 

"Family  and  accomplices." 

"Santa  Ysobel  people,  too,  then.  Folks  you  know 
well?" 

"Used  to." 

"The  lady  changed  her  mind  while  you  were 
across?"  I  risked  the  query. 

"While  I  was  shedding  my  blood  for  my  country." 
He  nodded.  "Gave  me  the  butt  while  the  Huns  were 
using  the  bayonet  on  me." 

In  the  careless  jeer,  as  much  at  himself  as  at  her, 
no  hint  what  his  present  feeling  might  be  toward  the 
fashion  plate  young  female  across  there.  With  some 
fellows,  in  such  a  situation,  I  should  have  looked  for  a 
disposition  to  duck  the  encounter;  let  his  old  sweet 
heart's  wedding  party  leave  without  seeing  him ;  with 
others  I  should  have  discounted  a  dramatic  moment 
when  he  would  court  the  "meeting.  It  was  impossible 
to  suppose  either  thing  of  Worth  Gilbert;  plain  that 
he  simply  sat  there  because  he  sat  there,  and  would 
make  no  move  toward  the  other  table  unless  something 
in  that  direction  interested  him — pleasantly  or  unpleas 
antly — which  at  present  nothing  seemed  to  do. 

So  we  smoked,  Worth  indifferent,  I  giving  all  the 


A  WEDDING  PARTY  33 

attention  to  the  people  over  there:  bride  and  groom; 
a  couple  of  fair  haired  girls  so  like  the  bride  that  I 
guessed  them  to  be  sisters;  a  freckled,  impudent  look 
ing  little  flapper  I  wasn't  so  sure  of;  two  older  men, 
and  an  older  woman.  Then  a  shifting  of  figures  gave 
me  sight  of  a  face  that  I  hadn't  seen  before,  and  I 
drew  in  my  breath  with  a  whistle. 

"Whew!     Who's  the  dark  girl?     She's  a  beauty!" 

"Dark  girl?"  Worth  had  interest  enough  to  lean 
into  the  place  where  I  got  my  view ;  after  he  did  so  he 
remained  to  stare.  I  sat  and  grinned  while  he  mut 
tered, 

"Can't  be.  ...  I  believe  it  is!" 

Something  to  make  him  sit  up  and  take  notice  now. 
I  didn't  wonder  at  his  fixed  study  of  the  young 
creature.  Not  so  dressed  up  as  the  others — I  think 
she  wore  what  ladies  call  an  evening  blouse  with  a 
street  suit ;  a  brunette,  but  of  a  tinting  so  delicate  that 
she  fairly  sparkled,  she  took  the  shine  off  those  blonde 
girls.  Her  small  beautifully  formed,  uncovered  head 
had  the  living  jet  of  the  crow's  wing;  her  great  eyes, 
long-lashed  and  sumptuously  set,  showed  ebon  irises 
almost  obliterating  the  white.  Dark,  shining,  she  was 
a  night  with  stars,  that  girl. 

"Funny  thing,"  Worth  spoke,  moving  his  head  to 
keep  in  line  with  that  face.  "How  could  she  grow  up 
to  be  like  this — a  child  that  wasn't  allowed  any  child 
hood?  Ljord,  she  never  even  had  a  doll!" 

"Some  doll  herself  now,"  I  smiled. 

"Yeh,"  he  assented  absently,  "she's  good  looking — 
but  where  did  she  learn  to  dress  like  that — and  play 
the  game?" 


34      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Where  they  all  learn  it."  I  enjoyed  very  much 
seeing  him  interested.  "From  her  mother,  and  her 
sisters,  or  the  other  girls." 

"Not."  He  was  positive.  "Her  mother  died  when 
she  was  a  baby.  Her  father  wouldn't  let  her  be  with 
other  children — treated  her  like  one  of  the  instruments 
in  his  laboratory ;  trained  her  in  her  high  chair ;  prob 
lems  in  concentration  dumped  down  into  its  tray,  pun 
ishment  if  she  made  a  failure;  God  knows  what  kind 
of  a  reward  if  she  succeeded ;  maybe  no  more  than  her 
bowl  of  bread  and  milk.  That's  the  kind  of  a  deal 
she  got  when  she  was  a  kid.  And  will  you  look  at 
her  now!" 

If  he  kept  up  his  open  staring  at  the  girl,  it  would 
be  only  a  matter  of  time  when  the  wedding  party  dis 
covered  him.  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair  to  watch, 
while  Worth,  full  of  his  subject,  spilled  over  in  words. 

"Never  played  with  anybody  in  her  life — but  me," 
he  said  unexpectedly.  "They  lived  next  house  but  one 
to  us;  the  professor  had  the  rest  of  the  Santa  Ysobel 
youngsters  terrorized,  backed  off  the  boards;  but  I 
wasn't  a  steady  resident  of  the  burg.  I  came  and  went, 
and  when  I  came,  it  was  playtime  for  the  little  girl." 

"What  was  her  father?     Crank  on  education?" 

"Psychology,"  Worth  said  briefly.  "International 
reputation.  But  he  ought  to  have  been  hung  for  the 
way  he  brought  Bobs  up.  Listen  to  this,  Jerry.  I 
got  off  the  train  one  time  at  Santa  Ysobel — can't 
remember  just  when,  but  the  kid  over  there  was  all 
shanks  and  eyes — 'bout  ten  or  eleven,  I'd  say.  Her 
father  had  her  down  at  the  station  doing  a  stunt  for 
a  bunch  of  professors.  That  was  his  notion  of  a  nice, 
normal  development  for  a  small  child.  There  she  sat 


A  WEDDING  PARTY  35 

poked  up  cross-legged  on  a  baggage  truck.  He'd 
trained  her  to  sit  in  that  self  balanced  position  so  she 
could  make  her  mind  blank  without  going  to  sleep.  A 
freight  train  was  hitting  a  twenty  mile  clip  past  the 
station,  and  she  was  adding  the  numbers  on  the  sides 
of  the  box  cars,  in  her  mind.  It  kept  those  professors 
on  the  jump  to  get  the  figures  down  in  their  notebooks, 
but  she  told  them  the  total  as  the  caboose  was  passing." 

"Some  stunt,"  I  agreed.  "Freight  car  numbers  run 
up  into  the  ten-thousands."  Worth  didn't  hear  me, 
he  was  still  deep  in  the  past. 

"Poor  little  white-faced  kid,"  he  muttered.  "I 
dumped  my  valises,  horned  into  that  bunch,  picked  her 
off  the  truck  and  carried  her  away  on  my  shoulder, 
while  the  professor  yelled  at  me,  and  the  other  ginks 
were  tabbing  up  their  additions.  And  I  damned  every 
one  of  them,  to  hell  and  through  it." 

"You  must  have  been  a  popular  youth  in  your  home 
town,"  I  suggested. 

"I  was,"  he  grinned.  "My  reason  for  telling  you 
that  story,  though,  is  that  I've  got  an  idea  about  the 
girl  over  there — if  she  hasn't  changed  too  much.  I 
think  maybe  we  might — " 

He  stood  up  calmly  to  study  her,  and  his  tall  figure 
instantly  drew  the  attention  of  everybody  in  the  room. 
Over  at  the  long  table  it  was  the  sharp,  roving  eye  of 
the  snub-nosed  flapper  that  spied  him  first.  I  saw  her 
give  the  alarm  and  begin  pushing  back  her  chair  to 
bolt  right  across  and  nab  him.  The  sister  sitting  next 
stopped  her.  Judging  from  the  glimpses  I  had  as  the 
party  spoke  together  and  leaned  to  look,  it  was  quite 
a  sensation.  But  apparently  by  common  consent  they 
left  whatever  move  was  to  be  made  to  the  bride;  and 


36     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

to  my  surprise  this  move  was  most  unconventional. 
She  got  up  with  an  abrupt  gesture  and  started  over  to 
our  table — alone.  This,  for  a  girl  of  her  sort,  was 
going  some.  I  glanced  doubtfully  at  Worth.  He 
shrugged  a  little. 

"Might  as  well  have  it  over.  Her  family  lives  on 
one  side  of  us,  and  Brons  Vandeman  on  the  other." 

And  then  the  bride  was  with  us.  She  didn't  overdo 
the  thing — much;  only  held  out  her  hand  with  a 
slightly  pleading  air  as  though  half  afraid  it  would  be 
refused.  And  it  was  a  curious  thing  to  see  that  pretty, 
delicate  featured,  schooled  face  of  hers  naively  drawn 
in  lines  of  emotion — like  a  bisque  doll  registering 
grief. 

Gilbert  took  the  hand,  shook  it,  and  looked  around 
with  the  evident  intention  of  presenting  me.  I  saw  by 
the  way  the  lady  gave  me  her  shoulder,  pushing  in, 
speaking  low,  that  she  didn't  want  anything  of  the  sort, 
and  quietly  dropped  back.  I  barely  got  a  side  view  of 
Worth's  face,  but  plainly  his  calmness  was  a  dis 
appointment  to  her. 

"After  these  years !"  I  caught  the  fringes  of  what 
she  was  saying.  "It  seems  like  a  dream.  To-night — 
of  all  times.  But  you  will  come  over  to  our  table — 
for  a  minute  anyhow?  They're  just  going  to — to 
drink  our  health — Oh,  Worth!"  That  last  in  a  sort 
of  impassioned  whisper.  And  all  he  answered  was, 

"If  I  might  bring  Mr.  Boyne  with  me,  Mrs.  Van 
deman."  At  her  protesting  expression,  he  finished, 
"Or  do  I  call  you  Ina,  still?" 

She  gave  him  a  second  look  of  reproach,  acknowl 
edging  my  introduction  in  that  way  some  women  have 
which  assures  you  they  don't  intend  to  know  you  in 


A  WEDDING  PARTY  37 

the  least  the  next  time.  We  crossed  to  the  table  and 
met  the  others. 

If  anybody  had  asked  my  opinion,  I  should  have 
said  it  was  a  mistake  to  go.  Our  advent  in  that 
party — or  rather  Worth  Gilbert's  advent — was  bound 
to  throw  the  affair  into  a  sort  of  consternation.  No 
mistake  about  that.  The  bridegroom  at  the  head  of 
the  table  seemed  the  only  one  able  to  keep  a  grip  on 
the  situation.  He  welcomed  Worth  as  though  he 
wanted  him,  took  hold  of  me  with  a  glad  hand,  and 
presented  me  in  such  rapid  succession  to  everybody 
there  that  I  was  dizzy.  And  through  it  all  I  had  an 
eye  for  Worth  as  he  met  and  disposed  of  the  effusive 
welcome  of  the  younger  Thornhill  girls.  Either  of 
the  twins,  as  I  found  them  to  be,  would,  I  judged, 
have  been  more  than  willing  to  fill  out  sister  Ina's  un- 
expired  term,  and  the  little  snub-nosed  one,  also  a  sister 
it  seemed,  plainly  adored  him,  as  a  hero,  sexlessly,  as 
they  sometimes  can  at  that  age. 

While  yet  he  shook  hands  with  the  girls,  and 
swapped  short  replies  for  long  questions,  I  became 
conscious  of  something  odd  in  the  air.  Plain  enough 
sailing  with  the  young  ladies;  all  the  noise  with  them 
echoed  the  bride's,  "After  all  these  years."  They 
clattered  about  whether  he  looked  like  his  last  photo 
graph,  and  how  perfectly  delightful  it  was  going  to  be 
to  have  him  back  in  Santa  Ysobel  again. 

But  when  it  came  to  the  chaperone,  a  Mrs.  Dr.  Bow 
man,  things  were  different.  No  longer  young,  though 
still  beautiful  in  what  I  might  call  a  sort  of  wasted 
fashion,  with  slim  wrists  and  fragile  fingers,  and  a 
splendid  mass  of  rich,  auburn  hair,  I  had  been  startled, 
even  looking  across  from  our  table,  by  the  extreme 


38      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

nervous  tension  of  her  face.  She  looked  a  neuras 
thenic;  but  that  was  not  all;  surely  her  nerves  were 
almost  from  under  control  as  she  sat  there,  her  rich 
cloak  dropped  back  over  her  chair,  the  corners  caught 
up  again  and  fumbled  in  a  twisting,  restless  hold. 

Now,  when  Worth  stood  before  her  appealing  eyes, 
she  reached  up  and  clutched  his  hand  in  both  of  hers, 
staring  at  him  through  quick  tears,  saying  something 
in  a  low,  choking  tone,  something  that  I  couldn't  for 
the  life  of  me  make  into  the  greeting  you  give  even  a 
beloved  youngster  you  haven't  seen  for  several  years. 

At  the  moment,  I  was  myself  being  presented  to  the 
lady's  husband,  a  typical  top-grade,  small  town  medical 
man,  with  a  fine  bedside  manner.  His  nice,  smooth 
white  hands,  with  which  I  had  watched  him  feeling  the 
pulse  of  his  supper  as  though  it  had  been  a  wealthy 
patient,  released  mine ;  those  cold  eyes  of  his,  that  hid 
a  lot  of  meaning  under  heavy  lids,  came  around  on  his 
wife.  His, 

"Laura,  control  yourself.  Where  do  you  think  you 
are?"  was  like  a  lash. 

It  worked  perfectly.  Of  course  she  would  be  his 
patient  as  well  as  his  wife.  Yet  I  hated  the  man  for 
it.  To  me  it  seemed  like  the  cut  of  the  whip  that  pun 
ishes  a  sensitive,  over  excited  Irish  setter  for  a  fault  in 
the  hunting  field.  Mrs.  Bowman  quivered,  pulled  her 
self  together  and  sat  down,  but  her  gaze  followed  the 
boy. 

She  sat  there  stilled,  but  not  quieted,  under  her 
husband's  eye,  and  watched  Worth's  meeting  with  the 
other  man,  whom  I  heard  the  boy  call  Jim  Edwards, 
and  with  whom  he  shook  hands,  but  who  met  him,  as 
Mrs.  Bowman  had,  as  though  there  had  been  some- 


A  WEDDING  PARTY  39 

thing  recent  between  them;  not  like  people  bridging  a 
long  gap  of  absence. 

And  this  man,  tall,  thin,  the  power  in  his  features 
contradicted  by  a  pair  of  soft  dark  eyes,  deep-set,  look 
ing  out  at  you  with  an  expression  of  bafflement,  defeat 
— why  did  he  face  Worth  with  the  stare  of  one 
drenched,  drowned  in  woe?  It  wasn't  his  wedding. 
He  hadn't  done  Worth  any  dirt  in  the  matter. 

And  I  was  wedged  in  beside  the  beautiful  dark  girl, 
without  having  been  presented  to  her,  without  even 
having  had  the  luck  to  hear  what  name  Worth  used 
when  he  spoke  to  her.  At  last  the  flurry  of  our  com 
ing  settled  down  (though  I  still  felt  that  we  were  stuck 
like  a  sliver  into  the  wedding  party,  that  the  whole 
thing  ached  from  us)  and  Dr.  Bowman  proposed  the 
health  of  the  happy  couple,  his  bedside  manner  going 
over  pretty  well,  as  he  informed  Vandeman  and  the 
rest  of  us  that  the  bridegroom  was  a  social  leader  in 
Santa  Ysobel,  and  that  the  hope  of  its  best  people  was 
to  place  him  and  his  bride  at  the  head  of  things  there, 
leading  off  with  the  annual  Blossom  Festival,  due  in 
about  a  fortnight. 

Vandeman  responded  for  himself  and  his  bride, 
appropriately,  with  what  I'd  call  a  sort  of  acceptable, 
fabricated  geniality.  You  could  see  he  was  the  kind 
that  takes  such  things  seriously,  one  who  would  go  to 
work  to  make  a  success  of  any  social  doings  he  got 
into,  would  give  what  his  set  called  good  parties ;  and 
he  spoke  feelingly  of  the  Blossom  Festival,  which  was 
the  great  annual  event  of  a  little  town.  If  by  putting 
his  shoulder  to  the  wheel  he  could  boost  that  affair 
into  nation-wide  fame  and  place  a  garland  of  rich 
bloom  upon  the  brow  of  his  fair  city,  he  was  willing  to 


40     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

take  off  his  neatly  tailored  coat,  roll  up  his  immaculate 
shirtsleeves  and  go  to  it. 

There  was  no  time  for  speech  making.  The  girls 
wanted  to  dance ;  bride  and  groom  were  taking  the  one 
o'clock  train  for  the  south  and  Coronado.  The 
orchestra  swung  into  "I'll  Say  She  Does." 

"Just  time  for  one."  Vandeman  guided  his  bride 
neatly  out  between  the  chairs,  and  they  moved  away. 
I  turned  from  watching  them  to  find  Worth  asking 
Mrs.  Bowman  to  dance, 

"Oh,  Worth,  dearest!  I  ought  to  let  one  of  the 
girls  have  you,  but — " 

She  looked  helplessly  up  at  him;  he  smiled  down 
into  her  tense,  suffering  face,  and  paid  no  attention  to 
her  objections.  As  soon  as  he  carried  her  off,  Jim 
Edwards  glumly  took  out  that  one  of  the  twins  I  had 
at  first  supposed  to  be  the  elder,  the  remaining  Thorn- 
hill  girls  moved  on  Dr.  Bowman  and  began  nagging 
him  to  hunt  partners  for  them. 

"Drag  something  up  here,"  prompted  the  freckled 
tomboy,  "or  I'll  make  you  dance  with  me  yourself." 
She  grabbed  a  coat  lapel,  and  started  away  with  him. 

I  turned  and  laughed  into  the  laughing  face  of  the 
dark  girl.  I  had  no  idea  of  her  name,  yet  a  haunting 
resemblance,  a  something  somehow  familiar  came 
across  to  me  which  I  thought  for  a  moment  was  only 
the  sweet  approachableness  of  her  young  femininity. 

Bowman  had  found  and  collared  a  partner  for 
Ernestine  Thornhill,  but  that  was  as  far  as  it  went. 
The  little  one  fore  bo  re  her  threat  of  making  him  dance 
with  her,  came  back  to  her  chair  and  tucked  herself 
in,  snuggling  up  to  the  girl  beside  me,  getting  hold  of 
a  hand  and  looking  at  me  across  it.  She  rejoiced,  it 


A  WEDDING  PARTY  41 

seems,  in  the  nickname  of  Skeet,  for  by  that  the  other 
now  spoke  to  her  whisperingly,  saying  it  was  too  bad 
about  the  dance. 

"That's  nothing,"  Skeet  answered  promptly.  "I'd 
a  lot  rather  sit  here  and  talk  to  you — and  your 
gentleman  friend — "  with  a  large  wink  for  me — "if 
you  don't  mind." 

At  the  humorous,  intimate  glance  which  again  passed 
between  me  and  the  dark  girl,  sudden  remembrance 
came  to  me,  and  I  ejaculated, 

"I  know  you  now !" 

"Only  now?"  smiling. 

"You've  changed  a  good  deal  in  seven  years,"  I 
defended  myself. 

"And  you  so  very  little,"  she  was  still  smiling,  "that 
I  had  almost  a  mind  to  come  and  shake  hands  with 
you  when  Ina  went  to  speak  to  Worth." 

I  remembered  then  that  it  was  Worth's  recognition 
of  her  which  had  brought  him  to  his  feet.  I  told  her 
of  it,  and  the  glowing,  vivid  face  was  suddenly  all 
rosy.  Skeet  regarded  the7  manifestation  askance,  ask 
ing  jealously, 

"When  did  you  see  Worth  last,  Barbie?  You 
weren't  still  living  in  Santa  Ysobel  when  he  left,  were 
you?" 

I  sat  thinking  while  the  girlish  voices  talked  on. 
Barbie — the  nickname  for  Barbara.  Barbara  Wal 
lace;  the  name  jumped  at  me  from  a  poster;  that's 
where  I  first  saw  it.  It  linked  itself  up  with  what 
Worth  had  said  over  there  about  the  forlorn  childhood 
of  this  beguiling  young  charmer.  Why  hadn't  I 
remembered  then?  I,  too,  had  my  recollections  of 
Barbara  Wallace.  About  seven  years  before,  I  had 


42      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

first  seen  her,  a  slim,  dark  little  thing  of  twelve  or 
fourteen,  very  badly  dressed  in  slinky,  too-long  skirts 
that  whipped  around  preposterously  thin  ankles,  blue- 
black  hair  dragged  away  from  a  forehead  almost  too 
fine,  made  into  a  bundle  of  some  fashion  that  belonged 
neither  to  childhood  nor  womanhood,  her  little,  pointed 
face  redeemed  by  a  pair  of  big  black  eyes  with  a  won 
derful  inner  light,  the  eyes  of  this  girl  glowing  here 
at  my  left  hand. 

The  father  Worth  spoke  of  brusquely  as  "the 
professor"  was  Elman  Wallace,  to  whom  all  students 
of  advanced  psychology  are  heavily  indebted.  The 
year  I  heard  him,  and  saw  the  girl,  his  course  of  lec 
tures  at  Stanford  University  was  making  quite  a  stir. 
I  had  been  one  of  a  bunch  of  criminologists,  detectives 
and  police  chiefs  who,  during  a  state  convention  were 
given  a  demonstration  of  the  little  girl's  powers,  clos 
ing  with  a  sort  of  rapid  pantomime  in  which  I  was 
asked  to  take  part.  A  half  dozen  of  us  from  the 
audience  planned  exactly  what  we  were  to  do.  I 
rushed  into  the  room  through  one  door,  holding  my 
straw  hat  in  my  left  hand,  and  wiping  my  brow  with 
a  handkerchief  with  the  right.  From  an  opposite 
door,  came  two  men;  one  of  them  fired  at  me  twice 
with  a  revolver  held  in  his  left  hand.  I  fell,  and  the 
second  man — the  one  who  wasn't  armed — ran  to  me 
as  I  staggered,  grabbed  my  hat,  and  the  two  of  them 
went  out  the  door  I  had  entered,  while  I  stumbled 
through  the  one  by  which  they  had  come  in.  It  lasted 
all  told,  not  half  a  minute,  the  idea  being  for  those 
who  looked  on  to  write  down  what  had  happened. 

Those  trained  criminologists,  supposed  to  have  eyes 
in  their  heads,  didn't  see  half  that  really  took  place, 


A  WEDDING  PARTY  43 

and  saw  a-plenty  that  did  not.  Most  of  'em  would 
have  hung  the  man  who  snatched  my  hat.  Only  one, 
I  remember,  noticed  that  I  was  shot  by  a  left-handed 
man.  Then  the  little  girl  told  us  what  really  had 
occurred,  every  detail,  just  as  though  she  had  planned 
it  instead  of  being  merely  an  observer. 

"Pardon  me,"  I  broke  in  on  the  girls.  "Miss 
Wallace,  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  you  really  know 
me  again  after  seeing  me  once,  seven  years  ago,  in  a 
group  of  other  men  at  a  public  performance?" 

"Why  shouldn't  I  ?  You  saw  me  then.  You  knew 
me  again." 

"But  you  were  doing  wonderful  things.  We  re 
member  what  strikes  us  as  that  did  me." 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  little  fading  of  that  glow 
her  face  seemed  always  to  hold. 

"Most  memories  are  like  that,"  she  agreed  listlessly. 
"Mine  isn't.  It  works  like  a  cinema  camera ;  I've  only 
to  turn  the  crank  the  other  way  to  be  looking  at  any 
past  record." 

"But  can  you — ?"  I  was  beginning,  when  Skeet 
stopped  me,  leaning  around  her  companion,  bristling  at 
me  like  a  snub-nosed  terrier. 

"If  you  want  to  make  a  hit  with  Barbie,  cut  out  the 
reminiscences.  She  does  loathe  being  reminded  that 
she  was  once  an  infant  phenom." 

I  glanced  at  my  dark  eyed  girl;  she  bent  her  head 
affirmatively.  She  wouldn't  have  been  capable  of 
Skeet's  rudeness,  but  plainly  Skeet  had  not  overstated 
her  real  feeling.  I  had  hardly  begun  an  apology  when 
the  dancers  rushed  back  to  the  table  with  the  informa 
tion  that  there  was  no  more  than  time  to  make  the  Los 
Angeles  train ;  there  was  an  instant  grasping  of  wraps, 


44     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

hasty  good-bys,  and  the  party  began  breaking  up  with 
a  bang.  Worth  went  out  to  the  sidewalk  with  them; 
I  sat  tight  waiting  for  him  to  return,  and  to  my  sur 
prise,  when  he  finally  did  appear,  Barbara  Wallace  was 
with  him. 


CHAPTER  IV 

AN  APPARITION 

44 1  AONT  look  so  scared!"  she  said  smilingly  to 

I  J  me.  "I'm  only  on  your  hands  a  few  minutes ; 
a  package  left  to  be  called  for." 

I  had  watched  them  coming  back  to  me  at  our  old 
table,  with  its  telephone  extension,  the  girl  with  eyes 
for  no  one  but  Worth,  who  helped  her  out  of  her  wrap 
now  with  a  preoccupied  air  and, 

"Shed  the  coat,  Bobs,"  adding  as  he  seated  her  be 
side  him,  "The  luck  of  luck  that  I  chanced  on  you  here 
this  evening." 

That  brought  the  color  into  her  face;  the  delicate 
rose  shifted  under  her  translucent  skin  almost  with  the 
effect  of  light,  until  that  lustrous  midnight  beauty  of 
hers  was  as  richly  glowing  as  one  of  those  marvellous 
dark  opals  of  the  antipodes. 

"Yes,"  she  said  softly,  with  a  smile  that  set  two 
dimples  deep  in  the  pink  of  her  cheeks,  "wasn't 
it  strange  our  meeting  this  way?"  Worth  wasn't 
looking  at  her.  He'd  signaled  a  waiter,  ordered  a  pot 
of  black  coffee,  and  was  watching  its  approach.  "I 
didn't  go  down  to  the  wedding,  but  Ina  herself  invited 
me  to  come  here  to-night.  I  had  half  a  mind  not  to ; 
then  at  the  last  minute  I  decided  I  would — and  I  met 
you!" 

Worth  nodded,  sat  there  humped  in  a  brown  study 
while  the  waiter  poured  our  coffee.  The  minute  the 
man  left  us  alone,  he  turned  to  her  with, 

45 


46     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"I've  got  a  stunt  for  you." 

"A— a  stunt?" 

The  light  failed  abruptly  in  her  face ;  her  mouth  with 
its  soft,  firm  molding,  its  vivid,  floral  red,  like  the 
lips  of  a  child,  went  down  a  bit  at  the  clean-cut  cor 
ners.  A  small  hand  fumbled  the  trimming  of  her 
blouse;  it  was  almost  as  if  she  laid  it  over  a  wounded 
heart. 

"Yes,"  he  nodded.  "Jerry's  got  something  in  his 
pocket  that'll  be  pie  for  you." 

She  turned  to  me  a  look  between  angry  and  piteous 
— the  resentment  she  would  not  vent  on  him. 

"Is — is  Mr.  Boyne  interested  in  stunts — such  as  I 
used  to  do?" 

"Sure,"  Worth  agreed.     "We  both  are.     We—" 

"Oh,  that  was  why  you  wanted  me  to  come  back 
with  you?"  She  had  got  hold  of  herself  now.  She 
was  more  poised,  but  still  resentful. 

"Bobs,"  he  cut  straight  across  her  mood  to  what  he 
wanted,  "Jerry  Boyne  is  going  to  read  you  something 
it  took  about  'steen  blind  people  to  see — and  you'll  give 
us  the  answer."  I  didn't  share  his  confidence,  but  I 
rather  admired  it  as  he  finished,  poising  the  tongs, 
"One  lump,  or  two  ?" 

Of  course  I  knew  what  he  meant.  My  hand  was 
already  fumbling  in  my  pocket  for  the  description  of 
Clayte.  The  girl  looked  as  though  she  wasn't  going 
to  answer  him;  she  moved  to  shove  back  her  chair. 
Worth's  only  recognition  of  her  attitude  was  to  put 
out  a  hand  quietly,  touch  her  arm,  not  once  looking  at 
her,  and  say  in  a  lowered  tone, 

"Steady,  Bobs."  And  then,  "Did  you  say  one  lump 
or  two?" 


AN  APPARITION  47 

"None."  Her  voice  was  scarcely  audible,  but  I  saw 
she  was  going  to  stay;  that  Worth  was  to  have  his 
way,  to  get  from  her  the  opinion  he  wanted — whatever 
that  might  amount  to.  And  I  passed  the  paper  to  him, 
suggesting, 

"Let  her  read  it.  This  is  too  public  a  place  to  be 
declaiming  a  thing  of  the  sort." 

She  hesitated  a  minute  then  gave  it  such  a  mere 
flirt  of  a  glance  that  I  hardly  thought  she'd  seen  what 
it  was,  before  she  raised  inquiring  eyes  to  mine  and 
asked  coldly, 

"Why  shouldn't  that  be  read — shouted  every  ten 
minutes  by  the  traffic  officer  at  Market  and  Kearny? 
They'd  only  think  he  was  paging  every  other  man  in 
the  Palace  Hotel." 

I  leaned  back  and  chuckled.  After  a  bare  glance, 
this  sharp  witted  girl  had  hit  on  exactly  what  I'd 
thought  of  the  Clayte  description. 

"Is  that  all?  May  I  go  now,  Worth?"  she  said, 
still  with  that  dashed,  disappointed  look  from  one  of 
us  to  the  other.  "If  you'll  just  put  me  on  a  Haight 
Street  car — I  won't  wait  for — "  And  now  she 
made  a  definite  movement  to  rise;  but  again  Worth 
held  her  by  the  mere  touch  of  his  fingers  on  her 
sleeve. 

"Wait,  Bobs,"  he  said.     "There's  more." 

"More?"  Her  eyes  on  Worth's  face  talked  louder 
than  her  tongue,  but  that  also  gained  fluency  as  he 
looked  back  at  her  and  nodded.  "Stunts!"  she  re 
peated  his  word  bitterly.  "I  didn't  expect  you  to  come 
back  asking  me  to  do  stunts.  I  hated  it  all  so — work 
ing  out  things  like  a  calculating  machine !"  Her  voice 
sank  to  a  vehement  undertone.  "Nobody  thinking  of 


48     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

me  as  human,  with  human  feelings.  I  have  never — 
done — one  stunt — since  my  father  died." 

She  didn't  weaken.  She  sat  there  and  looked 
Worth  squarely  in  the  eye,  yet  there  was  a  kind  of  big 
gentleness  in  her  refusal,  a  freedom  from  petty  re 
sentment,  that  had  in  it  not  so  much  a  girl's  hurt 
vanity  as  the  outspoken  complaint  of  a  really  grieved 
heart. 

"But,  Bobs,"  Worth  smiled  at  her  trouble,  about  the 
same  careless,  good-natured  smile  he  had  given  little 
Pete  when  he  flipped  him  the  quarter,  "suppose  you 
could  possibly  save  me  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  a 
minute  ?" 

"Then  it's  not  just  a  stunt?"  She  settled  slowly 
back  in  her  chair. 

"Certainly  not,"  I  said.  "This  is  business — with 
me,  anyhow.  Miss  Wallace,  why  do  you  think  a  des 
cription  like  that  could  be  shouted  on  the  street  with 
out  any  one  being  the  wiser?" 

"Was  it  supposed  to  be  a  description?"  she  asked, 
raising  her  brows  a  bit. 

"The  best  we  could  get  from  sixteen  or  eighteen 
people,  most  of  whom  have  known  the  man  a  long 
time;  some  of  them  for  eight  years." 

"And  no  one — not  one  of  all  these  people  could 
differentiate  him?" 

"I've  done  my  best  at  questioning  them." 

She  gave  me  one  straight,  level  look,  and  I  won 
dered  a  little  at  the  way  those  velvety  black  eyes  could 
saw  into  a  fellow.  But  she  put  no  query,  and  I  had 
the  cheap  satisfaction  of  knowing  that  she  was  con 
vinced  I'd  overlooked  no  details  in  the  quiz  that  went 


AN  APPARITION  49 

to  make  up  that  description.  Then  she  turned  to 
Worth. 

"You  said  I  might  save  you  a  lot  of  money.  Has 
the  man  you're  trying  here  to  describe  anything  to 
do  with  money — in  large  amounts — financial  affairs 
of  importance?" 

Again  the  little  girl  had  unconsciously  scored  with 
me.  To  imagine  a  rabbit  like  Clayte,  alone,  swing 
ing  such  an  enormous  job  was  ridiculous.  From  the 
first,  my  mind  had  been  reaching  after  the  others — 
the  big-brained  criminals,  the  planners  whose  instru 
ment  he  was.  She  evidently  saw  this,  but  Worth 
answered  her. 

"He's  quite  a  financier,  Bobs.  He  walked  off  with 
nearly  a  million  cash  to-day." 

"From  you?"  with  a  quick  breath. 

"I'm  the  main  loser  if  he  gets  away  with  it." 

"Tell  me  about  it." 

And  Worth  gave  her  a  concise  account  of  the  theft 
and  his  own  share  in  the  affair.  She  listened  eagerly 
now,  those  innocent  great  eyes  growing  big  with  the 
interest  of  it.  With  her  there  was  no  blind  stumbling 
over  Worth's  motive  in  buying  a  suitcase  sight  un 
seen.  I  had  guessed,  but  she  understood  completely 
and  unquestioningly.  When  he  had  finished,  she  said 
solemnly, 

"You  know,  don't  you,  that,  if  you've  got  your 
facts  right — if  these  things  you've  told  me  are  square, 
even  cubes  of  fact — they  prove  Clayte  among  the  won 
derful  men  of  the  world?" 

Worth's  big  brown  paw  went  out  and  covered  her 
little  hand  that  lay  on  the  table's  edge. 


50     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Now  we're  getting  somewhere,"  he  encouraged 
her.  As  for  me,  I  merely  snorted. 

"Wonderful  man,  my  eye!  He's  got  a  wonderful 
gang  behind  him." 

"Oh,  you  should  have  told  me  that  you  know  there 
is  a  gang,  Mr.  Boyne,"  she  said  simply.  "Of  course, 
then,  the  result  is  different." 

"Well,"  I  hedged,  "there's  a  gang  all  right.  But 
suppose  there  wasn't,  how  would  you  find  any  wonder- 
fulness  in  a  creature  as  near  nothing  as  this  Clayte?" 

She  sat  and  thought  for  a  moment,  drawing  imag 
inary  lines  on  the  table  top,  finally  looking  up  at  me 
with  a  narrowing  of  the  lids,  a  tightening  of  the  lips, 
which  gave  an  extraordinary  look  of  power  to  her 
young  feminine  face. 

"In  that  case,  Clayte  would  inevitably  be  one  of  the 
wonderful  men  of  the  world,"  she  repeated  her  char 
acterization  with  the  placid,  soft  obstinacy  of  falling- 
snow.  "Didn't  you  stop  a  minute — one  little  min 
ute,  Mr.  Boyne — to  think  it  wonderful  that  a  man  so 
devoid  of  personality  as  that — "  she  slanted  a  slim 
finger  across  the  description  of  Clayte — "Didn't  you 
add  up  in  your  mind  all  that  you  told  me  about  the 
men  disagreeing  as  to  which  side  he  parted  his  hair 
on,  whether  he  wore  tan  shoes  or  black,  a  fedora  or 
derby,  smoked  or  didn't, — absolutely  nothing  left  as 
to  peculiarities  of  face,  figure,  movement,  expression, 
manner  or  habit  to  catch  the  eye  of  one  single  observer 
among  the  sixteen  or  eighteen  you  questioned — surely 
you  added  that  up,  Mr.  Boyne?  What  result  did  you 
get?" 

"Nothing,"  I  admitted.  "To  hear  you  repeat  it,  of 
course  it  sounds  as  if  the  man  was  a  freak.  But  he 


AN  APPARITION  51 

wasn't.  He  was  just  one  of  those  fellows  that  are 
born  utterly  commonplace,  and  slide  through  life  with 
out  getting  any  marks  put  on  'em." 

"And  is  it  nothing  that  this  man  became  a  teller  in 
a  bank  without  infringing  at  all  on  the  circle  of  his 
nothingness?  Remained  so  shadowy  that  neither  the 
president  nor  cashier  can,  after  eight  years'  association, 
tell  the  color  of  his  hair  and  eyes?  Then  add  the 
fact  that  he  is  the  one  clerk  in  the  bank  without  a 
filed  photograph  and  description  on  record  with  your 
agency — what  result  now,  Mr.  Boyne?" 

"A  coincidence,"  I  said,  rather  hastily. 

"Don't,  please,  Mr.  Boyne !"  her  eyes  glowed  softly 
as  she  smiled  her  mild  sarcasm.  "Admit  that  he  has 
ceased  to  be  a  freak  and  becomes  a  marvel." 

"As  you  put  it — "  I  began,  but  she  cut  in  on  me 
with, 

"I  haven't  put  it  yet.  Listen."  She  was  smiling 
still,  but  it  was  plain  she  was  thoroughly  in  earnest. 
"When  this  cipher — this  nought — this  zero — manages 
to  annex  to  himself  a  million  dollars  that  doesn't  be 
long  to  him,  his  nothingness  gains  a  specific  meaning. 
The  zero  is  an  important  factor  in  mathematics.  I 
think  we  have  placed  a  digit  before  the  long  string  of 
ciphers  of  Clayte's  nothingness." 

"Nothing  and  nothing — make  nothing."  I  spoke 
more  brusquely  because  I  was  irritated  by  her  logic. 
"You  called  the  turn  when  you  spoke  of  him  as  a  zero. 
There  are  digits  to  be  added,  but  they're  the  gang 
that  planned  and  helped — and  used  zero  Clayte  as 
their  tool.  You're  talking  of  those  digits,  not  Clayte." 

"I  believe  Bobs'll  find  them  for  you,  Jerry — if  you'll 
let  ner,"  said  Worth. 


52      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Oh,  I'll  let  anybody  do  anything" — a  bit  nettled. 
"I'm  ready  to  have  our  friend  Clayte  take  his  place, 
with  the  pyramids  and  the  hanging  gardens  of  Bab 
ylon,  among  the  earth's  wonders;  but  you've  got  to 
show  me." 

"All  right."  Worth  gave  the  girl  a  look  that 
brought  something  of  that  wonderful  rose  flush  flut 
tering  back  into  her  cheeks.  "I'm  betting  on  her. 
Go  to  it,  Bobsie — let  him  in  on  your  mathematical 
logic." 

"You  used  the  word  'coincidence/  Mr.  Boyne." 
She  leaned  across  toward  me,  eyes  bright,  little  finger 
tip  marking  her  points.  "Allow  one  coincidence — 
that  the  only  description,  the  only  photograph  missing 
from  your  files  are  those  of  the  self-effacing  Clayte. 
To-day  Clayte  has  proved  to  be  a  thief — " 

"In  seven  figures,"  Worth  threw  in,  and  she  smiled 
at  him. 

"You  would  call  that  another  coincidence,  Mr. 
Boyne?" 

I  nodded,  rather  unable  at  the  moment  to  think  of 
a  better  word  to  use. 

"Two  coincidences,"  she  went  on, — "we  are  still 
in  mathematics — you  can't  add.  They  run  by  geo 
metrical  progression  into  the  impossible." 

The  phone  rang.  While  I  turned  to  answer  it,  my 
mind  was  still  hunting  a  comeback  to  this.  The  call 
was  from  Foster,  just  in  from  Ocean  View  and  re 
porting  for  instructions.  Covering  the  transmitter 
with  my  hand,  I  told  Worth  the  situation  and  asked, 

"Any  suggestions?" 

"Not  I,"  he  shook  his  head.  I  added,  a  bit  sar 
castically, 


AN  APPARITION  53 

"Or  you,  Miss  Wallace?" 

"Yes,"  she  surprised  me.  "Have  your  man  Foster 
find  three  women  who  have  seen  Edward  Clayte;  get 
from  them  the  color  of  his  hair  and  eyes;  tell  him 
to  have  them  be  exact  about  it." 

"Fine!  But  you  know  they'll  not  agree,  any  more 
than  the  other  people  agreed." 

"Oh,  yes  they  will,"  she  laughed  at  me  a  little. 
"Don't  you  notice  that  a  girl  always  says  a  blue-eyed 
man  or  a  brown-eyed  man?  That's  what  she  sees 
when  she  first  meets  him,  and  it  sticks  in  her  mind. 
Girls  and  women  sort  out  people  by  types;  small 
differences  in  color  mean  something  to  them." 

I  didn't  keep  Foster  waiting  any  longer. 

"Hello,"  I  spoke  quickly  into  the  transmitter.  "Get 
busy  and  dig  out  any  women  clerks  of  the  bank, 
stenographers,  scrub-women  there,  or  whatever,  and 
ask  them  particularly  as  to  the  exact  shade  of  Clay- 
te's  hair  and  eyes.  Get  Mrs.  Griggsby  again  at  the 
St.  Dunstan.  I  want  at  least  three  women  who 
can  give  these  points  exactly.  Exactly,  under 
stand?" 

He  did,  and  I  thanked  Miss  Wallace  for  her  sug 
gestion. 

"Now  that,"  I  said,  "is  what  I  want ;  a  good,  prac 
tical  idea — " 

"And  it  won't  be  a  bit  of  use  in  the  world  to  you," 
she  laughed  across  the  table  into  my  eyes.  "Why, 
Mr.  Boyne,  you've  found  out  already  that  there  are 
too  many  Edward  Claytes,  speaking  in  physical  terms, 
for  you  to  run  one  down  by  description.  There  are 
three  of  him  here,  within  sight  of  our  table  right  now 
— and  the  place  isn't  crowded." 


54      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

I  grinned  in  half  grudging  agreement,  and  found 
nothing  to  say.  It  was  Worth  who  spoke. 

"Like  to  have  you  go  a  step  further  in  this,  if  you 
would,"  and  when  she  shook  her  head,  he  went  on  a 
bit  sharply.  "See  here,  Bobs;  you  and  I  used  to  be 
pals,  didn't  we?"  She  nodded,  her  look  brightening. 
"Well  then,  here's  the  biggest  game  I've  been  up 
against  since  I  crawled  out  of  the  trenches  and  shucked 
my  uniform.  I  come  to  you  and  give  you  the  high- 
sign — and  you  throw  me  down.  You  don't  want  to 
play  with  me — is  that  it?" 

"Oh,  Worth !  I  do.  I  do  want  to  play  with  you," 
she  was  almost  in  tears  now.  "But  you  see,  I  didn't 
quite  understand.  I  felt  as  though  you  were  sort  of 
putting  me  through  my  paces." 

"Sure  not,"  Worth  drove  it  at  her  like  a  turbulent 
urchin.  "I'm  having  the  time  of  iny  young  life  with 
this  thing,  and  I  want  to  take  you  in  on  it." 

"If — if  you  fail  you  lose  a  lot  of  money;  wasn't 
that  what  you  said?"  she  questioned. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  nodded,  "Nothing  in  it  if  there 
weren't  a  gamble." 

"And  if  he  wins  out,  he  makes  quite  a  respectable 
pile,"  I  added. 

"WThat  I  want  of  you  now,"  he  explained,  "is  to 
go  with  us  to  Clayte's  room  at  the  St.  Dunstan — the 
room  he  disappeared  from — look  it  over  and  tell  us 
how  he  got  out  and  where  he  went." 

He  made  his  request  light-heartedly :  she  considered 
it  after  the  same  fashion ;  it  seemed  to  me  all  absurdity. 

"To-morrow  morning — Sunday,"  she  said.  "No 
office  to-morrow,"  she  sipped  the  last  of  her  black 


AN  APPARITION  55 

coffee  slowly.  "All  the  rest  of  the  facts  there  ever 
will  be  about  Edward  Clayte  are  in  that  room — aren't 
they?"  Her  voice  was  musing;  she  looked  straight 
ahead  of  her  as  she  finished  softly,  "What  time  do 
we  go?" 

"Early.  Does  nine  o'clock  suit  you?"  Wortr 
didn't  even  glance  at  me  as  he  made  this  arrangement 
for  us  both.  "We'd  scoot  up  there  now  if  it  wasn't 
so  late." 

"I've  no  doubt  you'll  find  the  place  carpeted  with 
zeros  and  hung  with  noughts  and  ciphers."  I  couldn't 
refrain  from  joshing  her  a  little.  She  took  it  with  a 
smile  glanced  across  the  room,  looked  a  little  surprised, 
and  half  rose  with, 

"Why,  there  they  are  for  me  now." 

I  couldn't  see  anybody  that  she  might  mean,  except 
a  man  who  had  walked  the  length  of  the  place  talking 
to  the  head  waiter,  and  now  stood  arguing  at  the 
corner  of  what  had  been  Bronson  Vandeman's  supper 
table.  This  man  evidently  had  his  attention  directed 
to  us,  turned,  looked,  and  in  the  moment  of  his  cross 
ing  I  saw  that  it  was  Cummings.  There  was  not  even 
the  usual  tight-lipped  half  smile  under  that  cropped 
mustache  of  his. 

"Good  evening."  He  looked  at  our  faces,  uttering 
none  of  the  surprise  he  plainly  felt,  letting  the  two 
words  do  for  greeting  to  us  all,  and,  as  it  seemed,  to 
me,  an  expression  of  disapproval  as  well.  The  young 
lady  replied  first. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Cummings,  did  they  send  you  for  me? 
Where  are  the  others?" 

She  had  come  to  her  feet,  and  reached  for  the  coat 


56     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

which  Worth  was  holding  more  as  if  he  meant  to 
keep  it  than  put  it  on  her. 

"I  left  your  chaperone  waiting  in  the  machine," 
Cumming's  tone  and  look  carried  a  plain  hurry-up. 
Worth  took  his  time  about  the  coat,  and  spoke  low  to 
the  girl  while  he  helped  her  into  it. 

"You'll  go  with  us  to-morrow  morning?" 

She  gave  me  one  of  those  adorable  smiles  that 
brought  the  dimples  momentarily  in  her  cheeks. 

"If  Mr.  Boyne  wants  me.     He  hasn't  said  yet." 

"Do  I  need  to?"  I  asked.  The  question  seemed 
reasonable.  There  she  stood,  such  a  very  pretty  girl, 
between  her  two  cavaliers  who  looked  at  each  other 
with  all  the  traditional  hostility  that  belonged  to  the 
situation.  She  smiled  on  both,  and  didn't  neglect  me. 
I  settled  the  matter  with, 

"Worth  has  your  address ;  we'll  call  for  you  in  my 
machine."  And  I  got  the  idea  that  Cummings  was 
asking  questions  about  it  as  he  went  away  holding  her 
arm. 

"Do  you  think  the  little  girl  will  really  be  of  any 
use?"  I  spoke  to  the  back  of  Worth's  head  as  he 
continued  to  stare  after  them. 

"Sure.  I  know  she  will."  He  shoved  his  crum 
pled  napkin  in  among  the  coffee  service,  and  we  moved 
toward  the  desk.  "Sure  she  will,"  he  repeated. 
"Wonder  where  she  met  Cummings." 


CHAPTER  V 

AT  THE  ST.  DUNSTAN 

AT  the  Palace  Hotel  Sunday  morning  where  I 
went  to  pick  up  Worth  before  we  should  call 
for  little  Miss  Wallace,  he  met  me  in  high  spirits 
and  with  an  enthusiasm  that  demanded  immediate 
physical  action. 

"Heh,"  I  said,  "you  look  fine.  Must  have  slept 
well." 

"Make  it  rested,  and  I'll  go  you,"  he  came  back 
cheerfully. 

He'd  already  been  out,  going  down  to  the  Grant 
Avenue  corner  for  an  assortment  of  Bay  cities  papers 
not  to  be  had  at  the  hotel  news-stands,  so  that  he  could 
see  whether  our  canny  announcement  of  Clayte's 
fifteen  thousand  dollar  defalcation  had  received  dis 
creet  attention  from  the  Associated  Press. 

For  my  part,  our  agency  had  been  able  to  get  hold 
of  three  women  who  had  seen  Clayte  and  remembered 
the  event ;  Mrs.  Griggsby ;  a  stenographer  at  the  bank ; 
and  the  woman  who  sold  newspapers  at  the  St.  Dun- 
stan  corner.  Miss  Wallace's  suggestion  had  proven 
itself,  for  these  three  agreed  with  fair  exactness,  and 
the  description  run  in  the  late  editions  of  the  city 
papers  was  less  vague  than  the  others.  It  gave  Clayte's 
eyes  as  a  pale  gray-blue,  and  his  hair  as  dull  brown, 
eliminating  at  least  all  brown-eyed  men.  Worth 
asserted  warmly, 

"That  girl's  going  to  be  useful  to  us,  Boyne."  I 

57 


58      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

couldn't  well  disagree  with  him-,  after  using  her  hint. 
We  were  getting  out  of  the  elevator  on  the  office 
floor  when  he  looked  at  me,  grinned  boyishly,  and 
added,  "What  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  I  was 
being  shadowed?" 

"That  I  thought  it  very  likely,"  I  nodded.  "Also  I 
might  hazard  a  guess  at  whose  money  is  paying  for  it." 

He  gave  me  a  quick  glance,  but  asked  no  questions. 
I  could  see  he  was  enjoying  his  position,  up  to  the 
hilt,  considered  the  attentions  of  a  trailer  as  one  of 
its  perquisites. 

"Keep  your  eyes  open  and  you'll  spot  him  as  we 
go  out,"  he  said  as  he  left  the  key  at  the  desk. 

It  was  hardly  necessary  to  keep  my  eyes  open  to 
see  the  lurking  figure  over  beyond  the  easy-chairs, 
which  started  galvanically  as  we  passed  through  the 
court,  and  a  moment  later  came  sidling  after  us. 
Little  Pete  had  left  my  machine  at  the  Market  Street 
entrance — Worth  was  to  drive  me — and  we  wheeled 
away  from  a  disappointed  man  racing  for  the  taxi 
line  around  the  corner. 

"More  power  to  his  legs,"  Worth  said. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  I  grunted  as  we  cut  into  Mont 
gomery,  negotiated  the  corner  onto  Bush  Street's  clear 
way,  striking  a  fair  clip  at  once.  "That  end  of  him 
already  works  better  than  the  other.  How  did  you 
get  wise?" 

"Barbara  Wallace  telephoned  me  to  look  out  for 
him,"  he  smiled,  and  let  my  car  out  another  notch 
once  we'd  passed  the  traffic  cop  at  Kearny. 

I  myself  had  foreseen  the  possibility — but  only  as  a 
possibility — that  Dykeman  would  put  a  man  on 
Worth's  coat-tails,  since  I  knew  Dykeman  and  had 


AT  THE  ST.  DUNSTAN  59 

been  at  that  bank  meeting;  yet  I  had  not  regarded  it 
as  likely  enough  to  warn  Worth;  and  here  was  this 
girl  phoning  him  to  look  out  for  a  trailer.  Was  this 
some  more  of  her  deductive  reasoning,  or  had  Cum- 
mings  dropped  a  hint? 

She  was  waiting  for  us  in  front  of  the  Haight 
Street  boarding  house  that  served  her  for  a  home, 
and  we  tucked  her  between  us  on  the  roadster's  wide 
seat.  At  the  St.  Dunstan  we  found  my  man,  left 
there  since  the  hour  of  the  alarm  the  day  before,  and 
everybody  belonging  to  the  management  surly  and 
glum.  The  clerk  handed  me  Clayte's  key  across  the 
morning  papers  spread  out  on  his  desk.  Apartment 
houses  dislike  notoriety  of  this  sort,  and  the  St.  Dun 
stan  set  up  to  be  as  rabidly  respectable,  as  chemically 
pure  as  any  in  the  city.  Well,  no  use  their  blaming 
me ;  Clayte  was  their  misfortune ;  they  couldn't  expect 
me  to  keep  the  matter  out  of  print  entirely. 

The  three  of  us  crowded  into  the  automatic  elevator, 
and  I  pressed  the  seventh  floor  button.  The  girl's 
eyes  shone  under  the  wisp  of  veil  twisted  around  a 
knowing  little  turban.  She  liked  the  taste  of  the  ad 
venture. 

"That  man  came  this  way — with  that  suitcase,"  she 
breathed,  " — maybe  set  it  down  right  there  when  he 
pressed  the  button — just  as  Mr.  Boyne  did  now!" 

It  was  a  fine  morning;  the  shades  had  been  left  up, 
and  Clayte's  room  when  I  opened  the  door  was  ablaze 
with  sunlight. 

"How  delightful!"  Barbara  Wallace  stopped  on 
the  threshold  and  looked  about  her.  I  expected  the 
scientific  investigating  to  begin;  but  no — she  was  all 
taken  up  with  the  beauty  of  sunlight  and  view. 


60     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

The  seventh  was  the  top  floor.  The  St.  Dunstan 
stood  almost  at  the  summit  where  Nob  Hill  slants 
obliquely  to  north  and  east,  and  Powell  Street  dizzies 
down  the  steep  descent  to  North  Beach  and  the  Bay. 
The  girl  had  run  to  a  window,  and  was  looking  out 
toward  the  marvelous  show  of  blue-green  water  and 
distant  Berkeley  hills. 

"Will  you  open  this  window  for  me,  please?"  she 
asked.  I  stepped  to  her  side,  forestalling  Worth  who 
was  eyeing  the  room's  interior  with  curiosity. 

"You'll  notice  the  burglar-proof  sash  locks,"  I  said 
as  I  manipulated  this  one.  She  gave  only  casual  in 
terest,  her  attention  still  on  the  view  beyond.  The 
steel  latch,  fastened  to  the  upper  sash,  locked  into  the 
socket  on  the  lower  sash  by  a  lever-catch.  "See? 
I  must  pull  out  this  little  lever  before  I  can  push  the 
hasp  back  with  my  thumb — so.  Now  the  window 
may  be  shoved  up,"  and  I  illustrated. 

"Yes,"  she  nodded;  then,  "Look  at  the  wisps  of  fog 
around  Tamalpais's  top.  Worth,  come  here  and  see 
the  violet  shadows  of  the  clouds  on  the  bay." 

"North  wind  coming  up,"  agreed  Worth,  stepping 
to  the  farther  window. 

"It's  bringing  in  the  fog,"  she  said;  then  abruptly, 
giving  me  the  first  hint  that  little  Miss  Wallace  con 
sidered  herself  on  the  job,  "Will  it  not  latch  by  itself 
if  you  jam  it  shut  hard?" 

"It  will  not."  I  illustrated  with  a  bang.  The 
latch  still  remained  open.  "I  must  close  it  by  hand." 
I  pushed  the  hasp  into  the  keeper,  and,  snap — the 
lever  shot  back  and  it  was  fast. 

"But  a  window  like  that  couldn't  be  opened  from 


AT  THE  ST.  DUNSTAN  61 

outside,  even  without  the  locking  lever,"  she  remarked, 
gazing  again  toward  the  Marin  shore. 

"A  man  with  the  know — a  burglar — can  open  the 
ordinary  window  latch  in  less  than  a  minute,"  I  told 
her.  "With  a  jimmy  pinched  between  the  sash  and 
the  sill,  a  recurring  pressure  starts  the  latch  back; 
nothing  to  hold  it.  This — unless  he  cuts  the  glass — 
is  burglar-proof." 

Worth,  at  her  shoulder,  now  looked  down  the  sheer 
descent  which  exaggerated  the  seven  stories  of  the 
St.  Dunstan;  because  of  its  crowning  position  on  the 
hill  and  the  intersection  of  streets,  we  looked  over  the 
roofs  of  the  houses  before  us,  far  above  their  chim 
ney  tops.  I  caught  his  eye  and  grinned  across  the 
girl's  head,  suggesting, 

"Besides,  we  weren't  trying  to  find  how  some  one 
could  break  into  this  room,  but  how  they  could  break 
out.  Even  if  the  latches  had  not  been  locked,  there 
wouldn't  be  an  answer  in  these  windows — unless 
Clayte  could  fly." 

"Might  have  climbed  from  one  window  ledge  to 
the  next  and  so  made  his  way  to  the  fire-escape," 
Worth  said,  but  I  shook  my  head. 

"He'd  be  seen  from  the  windows  by  the  tenants  on 
six  floors — and  nobody  saw  him.  Might  as  well  take 
the  elevator  or  the  stairs — which  he  didn't." 

But  the  girl  wasn't  listening  to  any  of  this.  Her 
expression  attentive,  alert,  she  was  passing  her  hand 
around  the  edge  of  the  glass  of  either  sash,  as  though 
she  still  dwelt  on  my  suggestion  of  cutting  the  pane; 
and  as  we  watched  her,  she  murmured  to  herself, 

"Yes,  flying  would  be  a  good  way."  It  made  me 
laugh. 


62      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

And  then  she  turned  away  from  the  windows  and 
had  no  more  interest  in  any  of  them,  going  with  me 
all  over  the  rest  of  the  room  with  rather  the  air  of 
a  person  who  thought  of  renting  it  than  a  high-brow 
criminal  investigator  hunting  clews. 

"He  lived  here — years,  you  say?"  I  nodded.  She 
slid  her  hand  over  the  plush  cushions  of  a  morris 
chair,  threw  back  the  covers  of  an  iron  bed  in  one 
corner  and  felt  of  the  mattress,  then  went  and  stood 
before  the  bare  little  dresser.  "Why,  the  place  ex 
presses  no  more  personality  than  a  room  in  a  tran 
sient  hotel!" 

"He  hadn't  any  personality,"  I  growled,  and  got 
the  flicker  of  a  smile  from  her  eye. 

"What  about  those  library  books  he  carried  in  the 
suitcase?"  Worth  came  in  with  an  echo  from  the 
bank  meeting. 

"Some  more  bunk,"  1  said  morosely.  "So  far 
we've  not  been  able  to  locate  him  as  a  patron  of  any 
public  or  private  library,  and  the  hotel  clerk's  sure  his 
mail  never  contained  a  correspondence  course — in  fact, 
neither  here  nor  at  the  bank  can  any  one  remember 
his  getting  any  mail.  If  he  ever  carried  books  in  that 
suitcase  as  Knapp  believed,  it  was  several  years  back." 

"Several  years  back,"  Miss  Wallace  repeated  low. 

"Myself,  I've  given  up  the  idea  of  his  studying. 
This  crime  doesn't  look  to  me  like  any  sudden  tempta 
tion  of  a  model  bank  clerk,  spending  his  spare  hours 
over  correspondence  courses.  I  rather  expect  to  find 
him  just  plain  crook." 

"Oh,  no,"  the  girl  objected.  "It's  too  big  and  too 
well  done  to  have  been  planned  by  a  dull,  common 
place  crook." 


AT  THE  ST.  DUNSTAN  63 

"Right  you  are,"  I  agreed,  with  restored  good 
humor.  "A  keen  brain  planned  this,  but  not  Clayte's. 
There  had  to  be  an  instrument — and  that  was  Clayte 
— also,  likely,  one  or  more  to  help  in  the  getaway." 

The  getaway !  That  brought  us  back  with  a  thump 
to  the  present  moment.  Our  pretty  girl  had  been  all 
over  the  shop  now,  glanced  into  bathroom,  closet  and 
cupboard,  noted  abandoned  hats,  clothing  and  shoes, 
the  electric  plate  where  Clayte  got  his  breakfast  coffee 
and  toast,  asked  without  much  interest  where  he  ate 
his  other  meals,  and  nodded  agreeingly  when  she  found 
that  he'd  been  only  an  occasional  customer  at  the 
neighboring  restaurants,  never  regular,  apparently  eat 
ing  here  and  there  down-town.  She  seemed  to  get 
something  out  of  that;  what  I  didn't  know. 

"You  speak  of  this  crime  not  being  committed  on 
impulse,"  she  turned  to  me  at  length.  "How  long 
ahead  should  you  say  he  planned  it  ?" 

"Or  had  it  planned  and  prepared  for  him,"  I  re 
minded  her. 

"Well,  that,  then,"  she  conceded  with  slight  impa 
tience.  "How  long  do  you  think  it  might  have  been 
planned  or  prepared  for?  Years?" 

"Hardly  that.  Not  more  than  a  year  probably.  A 
gang  like  this  wouldn't  hold  together  on  a  proposition 
for  many  months." 

The  black  brows  over  those  clear,  childlike  eyes, 
puckered  a  bit.  I  saw  she  wasn't  at  all  satisfied  with 
what  I  had  said. 

"Made  all  the  observations  you  want  to,  Bobs?" 
Worth  asked. 

"All  here.  I  want  to  see  the  roof."  She  gave  us 
rather  a  mechanical  smile  as  she  silently  ticked  her 


64     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

points  off  on  her  fingers,  appealing  to  me  with,  "I'm 
depending  upon  you  for  such  facts  as  I  have  been 
unable  to  observe  for  myself,  so  if  you  give  me  wrong 
facts — make  mistakes — I'll  make  mistakes  in  deduc 
tion." 

There  was  such  confidence  in  her  deductive  abilities 
that  a  tinge  of  irony  crept  into  my  tones  as  I  replied, 
"I'll  be  very  careful  what  opinions  I  hold." 
"I  don't  mind  the  opinions,"  this  astounding  young 
woman  took  me  up  gaily.     "I  never  have  any  of  my 
own,  so  I  don't  pay  attention  to  anybody  else's.     But 
do  be  careful  of  your  facts!" 

"I'll  try  to,"  was  all  I  said.  Worth  cut  in  with, 
"Do  you  consider  the  roof  another  fact,  Bobs?" 
"I  hope  to  find  facts  there,"  she  answered  promptly. 
"Remember,"  I  said,  "your  theory  means  another 
man  up  there,  and  you  haven't  yet — " 

"Please,  Mr.  Boyne,  don't  take  two  and  two  and 
,nake  five  of  them  at  this  stage  of  the  game,"  she 
checked  me  hastily,  and  I  left  them  together  while 
I  made  a  hurried  survey  of  the  hall  ceilings,  looking 
for  the  scuttle.  There  was  no  hatchway  in  view,  so 
I  started  down  to  the  clerk  to  make  inquiry.  As  I 
passed  Clayte's  open  door,  Miss  Wallace  seemed  to  be 
adjusting  her  turban  before  the  dresser  mirror,  while 
Worth  waited  impatiently. 

"Just  a  minute,"  I  called.  "I'll  be  right  back,"  and 
I  ducked  into  the  elevator. 


CHAPTER  VI 

ON  THE  ROOF 

WHEN  I  returned  with  a  key  and  the  information 
that  the  way  to  the  roof  ran  through  the 
janitor's  tool-room  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall,  I  found 
my  young  people  already  out  there.  Worth  was  trying 
the  tool-room  door. 

"Got  the  key?"  he  called.     "It's  locked." 

"Yes."  I  took  my  time  fitting  and  turning  it. 
"How  did  you  know  this  was  the  room?" 

"I  didn't,"  briefly.  "Bobs  walked  out  here,  and  I 
followed  her.  She  said  we'd  want  into  this  one." 

She'd  guessed  right  again!  I  wheeled  on  her, 
ejaculating, 

"For  the  love  of  Mike!  Tell  a  mere  man  how  you 
deduced  this  stairway.  Feminine  intuition,  I  suppose." 

I  hadn't  meant  to  be  offensive  with  that  last,  but 
her  firm  little  chin  was  in  the  air  as  she  countered, 

"Is  it  a  stairway?     It  might  be  a  ladder,  you  know." 

It  was  a  ladder,  an  iron  ladder,  as  I  found  when  I 
ushered  them  in.  My  eyes  snapped  inquiry  at  her. 

"Very  simple,"  she  said.  Worth  was  pushing  aside 
pails  and  boxes  to  make  a  better  way  for  her  to  the 
ladder's  foot.  "There  wouldn't  be  a  roof  scuttle  in 
the  rented  rooms,  so  I  knew  when  you  called  in  to 
tell  us  there  was  none  in  the  halls." 

"I  didn't.  I  said  nothing  of  the  sort."  Where  was 
the  girl's  fine  memory  that  she  couldn't  recollect  a 

65 


66      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

man's  words  for  the  little  time  I'd  been  gone!  "All 
I  said  was,  'Just  a  minute  and  I'll  be  back.'  ' 

"Yes,  that's  all  you  said  to  Worth."  She  glanced 
at  the  boy  serenely  as  he  waited  for  her  at  the  ladder's 
foot.  "He's  not  a  trained  observer;  he  doesn't  deduce 
even  from  what  he  does  observe."  There  were  twink 
ling  lights  in  her  black  eyes.  "But  what  your  hurried 
trip  to  the  office  said  to  me  was  that  you'd  gone  for 
the  key  of  the  room  that  led  to  the  roof -scuttle." 

Well,  that  was  reasonable — simple  enough,  too ;  but, 

"This  room?     How  did  vou  find  it?" 

* 

She  stepped  to  the  open  door  and  placed  the  tip  of 
a  gloved  finger  on  the  nickeled  naught  that  marked 
the  panels. 

"The  significant  zero  again,  Mr.  Boyne,"  she 
laughed.  "Here  it  means  the  room  is  not  a  tenanted 
one,  and  is  therefore  the  way  to  the  roof.  Shall  we  go 
there?" 

"Well,  young  lady,"  I  said  as  I  led  her  along  the 
trail  Worth  had  cleared,  "it  must  be  almost  as  bad  to 
see  everything  that  way — in  minute  detail — as  to  be 
blind." 

"Carry  on!"  Worth  called  from  the  top  of  the  lad 
der,  reaching  down  to  aid  the  girl.  She  laughed  back 
at  me  as  she  started  the  short  climb. 

"Not  at  all  bad!  You  others  seem  to  me  only  half 
awake  to  what  is  about  you — only  half  living,"  and 
she  placed  her  hand  in  the  strong  one  held  down  to  her. 
As  Worth  passed  her  through  the  scuttle  to  the  roof,  I 
saw  her  glance  carelessly  at  the  hooks  and  staples,  the 
clumsy  but  adequate  arrangement  for  locking  the 
hatch,  and,  following  her,  gave  them  more  careful 
attention,  wondering  what  she  had  seen — plenty  that  I 


ON  THE  ROOF  67 

did  not,  no  doubt.     They  had  no  tale  to  tell  my  eyes. 

Once  outside,  she  stopped  a  minute  with  Worth  to 
adjust  herself  to  the  sharp  wind  which  swept  across 
from  the  north.  Here  was  a  rectangular  space  sur 
rounded  by  walls  which  ran  around  its  four  sides  to 
form  the  coping,  unbroken  in  any  spot;  a  gravel-and- 
tar  roof,  almost  flat,  with  the  scuttle  and  a  few  small, 
dust  covered  skylights  its  only  openings,  four  chimney- 
tops  its  sole  projections.  It  was  bare  of  any  hiding- 
place,  almost  as  clear  as  a  tennis  court. 

We  made  a  solemn  tour  of  inspection;  I  wasn't 
greatly  interested — how  could  I  be,  knowing  that 
between  this  roof  and  my  fugitive  there  had  been 
locked  windows,  and  a  locked  door  under  reliable 
human  eyes?  Still,  the  lifelong  training  of  the  detec 
tive  kept  me  estimating  the  possibilities  of  a  getaway 
from  the  roof — if  Clayte  could  have  reached  it. 
Worth  crossed  to  where  the  St.  Dunstan  fire  escape 
came  up  from  the  ground  to  end  below  us  at  a  top 
floor  window.  I  joined  him,  explaining  as  we  looked 
down, 

"Couldn't  have  made  it  that  way;  not  by  daylight. 
In  open  view  all  around." 

"Think  he  stayed  up  here  till  dark?"  Worth 
suggested,  quite  as  though  the  possibility  of  Clayte's 
coming  here  at  all  was  settled. 

"My  men  were  all  over  this  building — roof  to  cellar 
— within  the  hour.  They'd  not  have  overlooked  a 
crack  big  enough  for  him  to  hide  in.  Put  yourself  in 
Clayte's  place.  Time  was  the  most  valuable  thing  in 
the  world  with  him  right  then.  If  ever  he  got  up  to 
this  roof,  he'd  not  waste  a  minute  longer  on  it  than  he 
had  to." 


68      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Let's  see  what's  beyond,  then,"  and  Worth  led  the 
way  to  the  farther  end. 

The  girl  didn't  come  with  us.  Having  been  once 
around  the  roof  coping,  looking,  it  seemed  to  me,  as 
much  at  the  view  as  anything  else,  she  now  seemed 
content  to  settle  herself  on  a  little  square  of  planking, 
a  disused  scuttle  top  or  something  of  the  sort,  in 
against  one  of  the  chimneys  where  she  was  sheltered 
from  the  wind.  Rather  to  my  surprise,  I  saw  her 
thoughtfully  pulling  off  her  gloves,  removing  her 
turban,  all  the  time  with  a  curiously  disinterested  air. 
I  was  reminded  of  what  Worth  had  said  the  night 
before  about  the  way  her  father  trained  her.  Probably 
she  regarded  the  facts  I'd  furnished  her,  or  that  she'd 
picked  up  for  herself,  much  as  she  used  to  the  problems 
in  concentration  her  father  spread  in  the  high  chair 
tray  of  her  infancy.  I  turned  and  left  her  with  them, 
for  Worth  was  calling  me  to  announce  a  fact  I  already 
knew,  that  the  adjoining  building  had  a  roof  some 
fifteen  feet  below  where  we  stood,  and  that  the  man, 
admitting  good  gymnastic  ability,  might  have  reached 
it. 

"Sure,"  I  said.  "But  come  on.  We're  wasting 
time  here." 

We  turned  to  go,  and  then  stopped,  both  of  us 
checked  instantly  by  what  we  saw.  The  girl  was  sit 
ting  in  a  strange  pose,  her  feet  drawn  in  to  cross 
beneath  her  body,  slender  hands  at  the  length  of  the 
arms  meeting  with  interlaced  finger-tips  before  her, 
the  thumbs  just  touching;  shoulders  back,  chin  up, 
eyes — big  enough  at  any  time,  now  dilated  to  look 
twice  their  size — velvet  circles  in  a  white  face.  Like 
a  Buddha;  I'd  seen  her  sit  so,  years  before,  an  under- 


ON  THE  ROOF  69 

sized  girl  doing  stunts  for  her  father  in  a  public  hall; 
and  even  then  she'd  been  in  a  way  impressive.  But 
now,  in  the  fullness  of  young  beauty,  her  fine  head 
relieved  against  the  empty  blue  of  the  sky,  the  free 
winds  whipping  loose  flying  ends  of  her  dark  hair,  she 
held  the  eye  like  a  miracle. 

Sitting  here  so  immovably,  she  looked  to  me  as 
though  life  had  slid  away  from  her  for  the  moment, 
the  mechanical  action  of  lungs  and  heart  temporarily 
suspended,  so  that  mind  might  work  unhindered  in  that 
beautiful  shell.  No,  I  was  wrong.  She  was  breath 
ing;  her  bosom  rose  and  fell  in  slow  but  deep,  placid 
inhalations  and  exhalations.  And  the  pale  face  might 
be  from  the  slower  heart-beat,  or  only  because  the  sur 
face  blood  had  receded  to  give  more  of  strength  to  the 
brain. 

The  position  of  head  of  a  Bankers'  Security  Agency 
carries  with  it  a  certain  amount  of  dignity — a  dignity 
which,  since  Richardson's  death,  I  have  maintained 
better  than  I  have  handled  other  requirements  of  the 
business  he  left  with  me.  I  stood  now  feeling  like  a 
fool.  I'd  grown  gray  in  the  work,  and  here  in  my 
prosperous  middle  life,  a  boy's  whim  and  a  girl's  pretty 
face  had  put  me  in  the  position  of  consulting  a  clair 
voyant.  Worse,  for  this  was  a  wild-cat  affair,  without 
even  the  professional  standing  of  establishments  to 
which  I  knew  some  of  the  weak  brothers  in  my  line 
sometimes  sneaked  for  ghostly  counsel.  If  it  should 
leak  out,  I  was  done  for. 

I  suppose  I  sort  of  groaned,  for  I  felt  Worth  put  a 
restraining  hand  on  my  arm,  and  heard  his  soft, 

"Psst!" 

The  two  of  us  stood,  how  long  I  can't  say,  something 


70      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

besides  the  beauty  of  the  young  creature,  even  the 
dignity  of  her  in  this  outre  situation  getting  hold  of 
me,  so  that  I  was  almost  reverent  when  at  last  the 
rigidity  of  her  image-like  figure  began  to  relax,  the 
pretty  feet  in  their  silk  stockings  and  smart  pumps 
appeared  where  they  belonged,  side  by  side  on  the  edge 
of  the  planking,  and  she  looked  at  us  with  eyes  that 
slowly  gathered  their  normal  expression,  and  a  smile 
of  rare  human  sweetness. 

"It  is  horrid  to  see — and  I  loathe  doing  it!"  She 
shook  her  curly  dark  head  like  a  punished  child,  and 
stayed  a  minute  longer,  eyes  downcast,  groping  after 
gloves  and  hat.  "I  thought  maybe  I'd  get  the  answer 
before  you  saw  me — sitting  up  like  a  trained  seal !" 

"Like  a  mighty  pretty  little  heathen  idol,  Bobs," 
Worth  amended. 

"Well,  it's  the  only  way  I  can  really  concentrate — 
effectively.  But  this  is  the  first  time  I've  done  it  since 
— since  father  died." 

"And  never  again  for  me,  if  that's  the  way  you  feel 
about  it."  Worth  crossed  quickly  and  stood  beside 
her,  looking  down.  She  reached  a  hand  to  him ;  her 
eyes  thanked  him;  but  as  he  helped  her  to  her  feet  I 
was  struck  by  a  something  poised  and  confident  that 
she  seemed  to  have  brought  with  her  out  of  that 
strange  state  in  which  she  had  just  been. 

"Doesn't  either  of  you  want  to  hear  the  answer?" 
she  asked.  Then,  without  waiting  for  reply,  she 
started  for  the  scuttle  and  the  ladder,  bare  headed, 
carrying  her  hat.  We  found  her  once  more  adjusting 
turban  and  veil  before  the  mirror  of  Clayte's  dresser. 
She  faced  around,  and  announced,  smiling  steadily 
across  at  me. 


ON  THE  ROOF  71 

"Your  man  Clayte  left  this  room  while  Mrs. 
Griggsby  was  kneeling  almost  on  its  threshold — left 
it  by  that  window  over  there.  He  got  to  the  roof  by 
means  of  a  rope  and  grappling  hook.  He  tied  the 
suitcase  to  the  lower  end  of  the  rope,  swung  it  out 
of  the  window,  went  up  hand  over  hand,  and  pulled 
the  suitcase  up  after  him.  That's  the  answer  I  got." 

It  was?  Well,  it  was  a  beaut!  Only  Worth  Gil 
bert,  standing  there  giving  the  proceeding  respecta 
bility  by  careful  attention  and  a  grave  face,  brought 
me  down  to  asking  with  mild  jocularity, 

"He  did?  He  did  all  that?  Well,  please  ma'am, 
who  locked  the  window  after  him?" 

"He  locked  the  window  after  himself." 

"Oh,  say!"  I  began  in  exasperation — hadn't  I  just 
shown  the  impractical  little  creature  that  those  locks 
couldn't  be  manipulated  from  outside? 

"Wait.  Examine  carefully  the  wooden  part  of  the 
upper  sash,  at  the  lock — again,"  she  urged,  but  without 
making  any  movement  to  help.  "You'll  find  what  we 
overlooked  before;  the  way  he  locked  the  sash  from 
the  outside." 

I  turned  to  the  window  and  looked  where  she  had 
said;  nothing.  I  ran  my  fingers  over  the  painted 
surface  of  the  wood,  outside,  opposite  the  latch,  and  a 
queer,  chilly  feeling  went  down  my  spine.  I  jerked 
out  my  knife,  opened  it  and  scraped  at  a  tiny 
inequality. 

"There  is — is  something — "  I  was  beginning,  when 
Worth  crowded  in  at  my  side  and  pushed  his  broad 
shoulders  out  the  window  to  get  a  better  view  of  my 
operations,  then  commanded, 

"Let  me  have  that  knife."     He  took  it  from  my 


72      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

fingers,  dug  with  its  blade,  and  suddenly  from  the  in 
side  I  saw  a  tiny  hole  appear  in  the  frame  of  the  sash 
beside  the  lock  hasp.  "Here  we  are!"  He  brought 
his  upper  half  back  into  the  room  and  held  up  a  wooden 
plug,  painted — dipped  in  paint — the  exact  color  of  the 
sash.  It  had  concealed  a  hole;  pierced  the  wood  from 
out  to  in. 

"And  she  saw  that  in  her  trance,"  I  murmured, 
gaping  in  amazement  at  the  plug. 

I  heard  her  catch  her  breath,  and  Worth  scowled  at 
me, 

"Trance?  What  do  you  mean,  Boyne?  She 
doesn't  go  into  a  trance." 

"That — that — whatever  she  does,"  I  corrected  rather 
helplessly. 

"Never  mind,  Mr.  Boyne,"  said  the  girl.  "It  isn't 
clairvoyance  or  anything  like  that,  however  it  looks." 

"But  I  wouldn't  have  believed  any  human  eyes  could 
have  found  that  thing.  I  discovered  it  only  by  sense 
of  touch — and  that  after  you  told  me  to  hunt  for  it. 
You  saw  it  when  I  was  showing  you  the  latch,  did 
you?" 

"Oh,  I  didn't  see  it."  She  shook  her  head.  "I 
found  it  when  I  was  sitting  up  there  on  the  roof." 

"Guessed  at  it?" 

"I  never  guess."  Indignantly.  "When  I'd  cleared 
my  mind  of  everything  else — had  concentrated  on  just 
the  facts  that  bore  on  what  I  wanted  to  know — how 
that  man  with  the  suitcase  got  out  of  the  room  and  left 
it  locked  behind  him — I  deduced  the  hole  in  the  sash 
by  elimination." 

"By  elimination?"  I  echoed.     "Show  me." 

"Simple  as  two  and  two,"  she  assented.     "Out  of 


ON  THE  ROOF  73 

the  door?  No ;  Mrs.  Griggsby ;  so  out  of  the  window. 
Down  ?  No ;  you  told  why ;  he  would  be  seen ;  so,  up. 
Ladder?  No;  too  big  for  one  man  to  handle  or  to 
hide;  so  a  rope." 

"But  the  hole  in  the  sash?" 

"You  showed  me  the  only  way  to  close  that  lock 
from  the  outside.  There  was  no  hole  in  the  glass,  so 
there  must  be  in  the  sash.  It  was  not  visible — you  had 
been  all  over  it,  and  a  man  of  your  profession  isn't  a 
totally  untrained  observer — so  the  hole  was  plugged. 
I  hadn't  seen  the  plug,  so  it  was  concealed  by  paint — " 

I  was  trying  to  work  a  toothpick  through  the  plug 
hole.  She  offered  me  a  wire  hairpin,  straightened  out, 
and  with  it  I  pushed  the  hasp  into  place  from  outside, 
saw  the  lever  snap  in  to  hold  it  fast.  I  had  worked 
the  catch  as  Clayte  had  worked  it — from  outside. 

"How  did  you  know  it  was  this  window?"  I  asked, 
forced  to  agree  that  she  had  guessed  right  as  to  the 
sash  lock.  "There  are  two  more  here,  either  of 
which—" 

"No,  please,  Mr.  Boyne.  Look  at  the  angle  of  the 
roof  that  cuts  from  view  any  one  climbing  from  this 
window — not  from  the  others." 

We  were  all  leaning  in  the  window  now,  sticking 
our  heads  out,  looking  down,  looking  up. 

"I  can't  yet  see  how  you  get  the  rope  and  hook,"  I 
said.  "Still  seems  to  me  that  an  outside  man  posted 
on  the  roof  to  help  in  the  getaway  is  more  likely." 

"Maybe.  I  can't  deal  with  things  that  are  merely 
likely.  It  has  to  be  a  fact — or  nothing — for  my  use. 
I  know  that  there  wasn't  any  second  man  because  of  the 
nicks  Clayte's  grappling  hook  has  left  in  the  cornice 
•ap  there." 


74     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Nicks!"  I  said,  and  stood  like  a  bound  boy  at  a 
husking,  without  a  word  to  say  for  myself.  Of 
course,  in  this  impasse  of  the  locked  windows,  my  men 
and  I  had  had  some  excuse  for  our  superficial  examina 
tion  of  the  roof.  Yet  that  she  should  have  seen  what 
we  had  passed  over — seen  it  out  of  the  corner  of  her 
eye,  and  be  laughing  at  me — was  rather  a  dose  to 
swallow.  She'd  got  her  hair  and  her  hat  and  veil  to 
her  liking,  and  she  prompted  us, 

"So  now  you  want  to  get  right  down  stairs — don't 
you — and  go  up  through  that  other  building  to  its 
roof?" 

I  stared.  She  had  my  plan  almost  before  I  had 
made  it. 

At  the  St.  Dtmstan  desk  where  I  returned  the  keys, 
little  Miss  Wallace  had  a  question  of  her  own  to  put 
to  the  clerk. 

"How  long  ago  was  this  building  reroofed?"  she 
asked  with  one  of  her  dark,  softly  glowing  smiles. 

"Reroofed?"  repeated  the  puzzled  clerk,  much  more 
civil  to  her  than  he  had  been  to  me.  "I  don't  know 
that  it  ever  was.  Certainly  not  in  my  time,  and  I've 
been  here  all  of  four  years." 

"Not  in  four  years?     You're  sure?" 

"Sure  of  that,  yes,  miss.  But  I  can  find  exactly." 
The  fellow  behind  the  desk  was  rising  with  an  eager 
ness  to  be  of  service  to  her,  when  she  cut  him  short 
with, 

"Thank  you.  Four  years  would  be  exact  enough 
for  my  purpose."  And  she  followed  a  puzzled  detec 
tive  and,  if  I  may  guess,  an  equally  wondering  Worth 
Gilbert  out  into  the  street. 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  GOLD  NUGGET 

THE  neighbor  to  the  south  of  the  St.  Dunstan 
was  the  Gold  Nugget  Hotel,  a  five  story  brick 
building  and  not  at  all  pretentious  as  a  hostelry.  I 
knew  the  place  mildly,  and  my  police  training,  even 
better  than  such  acquaintance  as  I  had  with  this 
particular  dump,  told  me  what  it  was.  Through  the 
windows  we  could  see  guests,  Sunday  papers  littered 
about  them,  half  smoked  cigars  in  their  faces, 
and  hats  which  had  a  general  tendency  to  tilt  over  the 
right  eye.  And  here  suddenly  I  realized  the  difference 
between  Miss  Barbara  Wallace/  a  scientist's  daughter, 
and  some  feminine  sleuth  we  might  have  had  with  us. 

"Take  her  back  to  the  St.  Dunstan,  Worth,"  I 
suggested.  Then,  as  I  saw  they  were  both  going  to 
resist,  "She  can't  go  in  here.  I'll  wait  for  you  if  you 
like." 

"Don't  know  why  we  shouldn't  let  Bobs  in  on  the 
fun,  same  as  you  and  me,  Jerry."  That  was  the  way 
Worth  put  it.  I  took  a  side  glance  at  his  attitude  in 
this  affair — that  he'd  bought  and  was  enjoying  an  eight 
hundred  thousand  dollar  frolic,  offering  to  share  it  with 
a  friend;  and  saying  no  more,  I  wheeled  and  swung 
open  the  door  for  them.  The  man  at  the  desk  looked 
at  me,  calling  a  quick, 

"Hello,  Jerry— what's  up?" 

75 


76      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Hello,  Kite.     How'd  you  come  here?" 

The  Kite  as  a  hotelman  was  a  new  one  on  me.  Last 
I  knew  of  him,  he  was  in  the  business  of  making  book 
at  the  Emeryville  track;  and  I  supposed — if  I  ever 
thought  of  him — that  he'd  followed  the  ponies  south 
across  the  border.  As  I  stepped  close  to  the  counter, 
he  spoke  low,  his  look  one  of  puzzled  and  somewhat 
anxious  inquiry. 

"Running  straight,  Jerry.  You  may  ask  the  Chief. 
What  can  I  do  for  you?" 

Rather  glad  of  the  luck  that  gave  me  an  old 
acquaintance  to  deal  with,  I  told  him,  described  Clayte, 
Worth  and  Miss  Wallace  standing  by  listening;  then 
asked  if  Kite  had  seen  him  pass  through  the  hotel  going 
out  the  previous  day  at  some  time  around  one  o'clock, 
carrying  a  brown,  sole  leather  suitcase. 

The  readers  of  the  Sunday  papers  who  had  been 
lured  from  their  known  standards  of  good  manners 
into  the  sending  of  sundry  interested  glances  in  the 
direction  of  our  sparkling  girl,  took  the  cue  from  the 
Kite's  scowl  to  bury  themselves  for  good  in  the  volu 
minous  sheets  they  held,  each  attending  strictly  to  his 
own  business,  as  is  the  etiquette  of  places  like  the  Gold 
Nugget. 

"About  one  o'clock,  you  say?"  Kite  muttered, 
frowning,  twisted  his  head  around  and  called  down  a 
back  passage,  "Louie — Oh,  Louie!"  and  when  an 
overalled  porter,  rather  messy,  shuffled  to  the  desk,  put 
the  low  toned  query,  "D'you  see  any  stranger  guy 
gripping  a  sole  leather  shirt-box  snoop  by  out  yestiddy, 
after  one,  thereabouts?"  And  I  added  the  informa 
tion, 


THE  GOLD  NUGGET  77 

"Medium  height  and  weight,  blue  eyes,  light  brown 
hair,  smooth  face." 

Louie  looked  at  me  dubiously. 

"How  big  a  guy?"  he  asked. 

"Five  feet  seven  or  eight;  weighs  about  hundred 
and  forty." 

"Blue  eyes  you  say?" 

"Light  blue — gray  blue." 

"How  was  he  tucked  up?" 

"Blue  serge  suit,  black  shoes,  black  derby.  Neat, 
quiet  dresser." 

Louie's  eyes  wandered  over  the  guests  in  the  office 
questioningly.  I  began  to  feel  impatient.  If  there 
was  any  place  in  the  city  where  my  description  of  Clayte 
would  differentiate  him,  make  him  noticeable  by  com 
parison,  it  was  here.  Neat,  quiet  dressers  were  not 
dotting  this  lobby. 

"Might  be  Tim  Foley?"  he  appealed  to  the  Kite,  who 
nodded  gravely  and  chewed  his  short  mustache. 
"Would  he  have  a  big  scar  on  his  left  cheek?" 

"He  would  not,"  I  said  shortly.  "He  wasn't  a 
guest  here,  and  you  don't  know  him.  Get  this  straight 
now:  a  stranger,  going  through  here,  out;  about  one 
o'clock ;  carried  a  suitcase." 

"Bulls  after  him?"  Louie  asked,  and  I  turned  away 
from  him  wearily. 

"Kite,"  I  said,  "let  me  up  to  your  roof." 

"Sure,  Jerry."  Released,  the  porter  went  on  to 
gather  up  a  pile  of  discarded  papers. 

"Could  he — the  man  I've  described — come  through 
here — through  this  office  and  neither  you  nor  Louie 
see  him  ?"  I  asked.  The  Kite  brought  a  box  of  cigars 
from  under  the  counter  with, 


78      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"My  treat,  gentlemen.  Naw,  Jerry;  sure  not — not 
that  kind  of  a  guy.  Louie'd  'a'  spotted  him.  Most 
observing  cuss  I  ever  seen." 

Miss  Wallace,  taking  all  this  in,  seemed  amused. 
As  I  turned  to  lead  to  the  elevator  I  found  that  again 
she  wanted  a  question  of  her  own  answered. 

"Mr.  Kite,"  she  began  and  I  grinned;  Kite  wasn't 
the  Kite's  surname  or  any  part  of  his  name;  "Who  is 
the  guest  here  with  the  upstairs  room — on  the  top 
floor — has  had  the  same  room  right  along — for  five 
or  six  years — but  doesn't — " 

"Go  easy,  ma'am,  please!"  Kite's  little  eyes  were 
popping;  he  dragged  out  a  handkerchief  and  fumbled  it 
around  his  forehead.  "I've  not  been  here  for  any  five 
or  six  years — no,  nor  half  that  time.  Since  I've  been 
here  most  of  our  custom  is  transient.  Nobody  don't 
keep  no  room  five  or  six  years  in  the  Gold  Nugget." 

"Back  up,"  I  smiled  at  his  excitement.  "To  my 
certain  knowledge  Steve  Skeels  has  had  a  room  here 
longer  than  that.  Hasn't  he  been  with  you  ever  since 
the  place  was  rebuilt  after  the  earthquake?" 

"Steve?"  the  Kite  repeated.  "I  forgot  him.  Yeah 
— he  keeps  a  little  room  up  under  the  roof." 

"Has  he  had  it  for  as  long  as  four  years  ?"  the  young 
lady  asked. 

"Search  me,"  the  Kite  shook  his  head. 

But  Louie  the  overalled,  piloting  us  the  first  stage 
of  our  journey  in  a  racketty  old  elevator  that  he  seemed 
to  pull  up  by  a  cable,  so  slow  it  was,  grumbled  an 
assent  to  the  same  question  when  it  was  put  to  him, 
and  confirmed  my  belief  that  Skeels  came  into  the 
hotel  as  soon  as  it  was  rebuilt,  and  had  kept  the  same 
room  ever  since. 


THE  GOLD  NUGGET  79 

Miss  Wallace  seemed  interested  in  this;  but  all  the 
time  we  were  making  the  last  lap,  by  an  iron  stairway, 
to  that  roof -house  we  had  seen  from  the  top  of  the  St. 
Dunstan;  all  the  time  Louie  was  unlocking  the  door 
there  to  let  us  out,  instructing  us  to  be  sure  to  relock 
it  and  bring  him  the  key,  and  to  yell  for  him  down  the 
elevator  shaft  because  the  bell  was  busted,  the  quiet 
smile  of  Miss  Barbara  Wallace  disturbed  me.  She 
followed  where  I  led,  but  I  had  the  irritating  impression 
that  she  looked  on  at  my  movements,  and  Worth's  as 
well,  with  the  indulgent  eye  of  a  grown-up  observing 
children  at  play. 

On  the  roof  of  the  Gold  Nugget  we  picked  up  the 
possible  trail  easily ;  Clayte  hadn't  needed  to  go  through 
the  building,  or  have  a  confederate  staked  out  in  a  room 
here,  to  make  a  downward  getaway.  For  here  the 
fire  escape  came  all  the  way  up,  curving  over  the  cop 
ing  to  anchor  into  the  wall,  and  it  was  a  good  iron 
stairway,  with  landings  at  each  floor,  and  a  handrail 
the  entire  length,  its  lower  end  in  the  alley  between 
Powell  and  Mason  Streets.  Looking  at  it  I  didn't 
doubt  that  it  was  used  by  the  guests  of  the  Gold 
Nugget  at  least  half  as  much  as  the  easier  but  more 
conspicuous  front  entrance.  Therefore  a  man  seen  on 
it  would  be  no  more  likely  to  attract  attention  than  he 
would  in  the  elevator.  I  explained  this  to  the  others, 
but  Worth  had  attacked  a  rack  of  old  truck  piled  in 
the  corner  of  the  roof-house,  and  paid  little  attention 
to  me,  while  Miss  Wallace  nodded  with  her  provoking 
smile  and  said, 

"Once — yes;  no  doubt  you  are  exactly  right.  I 
wasn't  looking  for  a  way  that  a  man  might  take  once, 
under  pressure  of  great  necessity." 


80     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Why  not?"  I  countered.  "If  Clayte  got  away  by 
this  means  yesterday — that'll  do  me." 

"It  might,"  she  nodded,  "if  you  could  see  it  as  a 
fact,  without  seeing  a  lot  more.  Such  a  man  as  Clayte 
was — a  really  wonderful  man,  you  know — "  the  dim 
ples  were  deep  in  the  pink  of  her  cheeks  as  she  flashed 
a  laughing  look  at  me  with  this  clawful — "a  really 
wonderful  man  like  Clayte,"  she  repeated,  "wouldn't 
have  trusted  to  a  route  he  hadn't  known  and  proved 
for  a  long  time." 

"That's  theory/'  I  smiled.  "I  take  my  hat  off  to 
you,  Miss  Wallace,  when  it  comes  to  observing  and 
deducing,  but  I'm  afraid  your  theorizing  is  weak." 

"I  never  theorize,"  she  reminded  me.  "All  I  deal 
with  is  facts." 

She  had  perched  herself  on  an  overturned  box,  and 
was  watching  Worth  sort  junk.  I  leaned  against  the 
i oof-house,  pushed  Kite's  donated  cigar  unlighted  into 
a  corner  of  my  mouth  and  stared  at  her. 

"Miss  Wallace,"  I  said  sharply,  "what's  this  Steve 
Skeels  stuff?  What's  this  reroofing  stuff?  What's 
the  dope  you  think  you  have,  and  you  think  I  haven't? 
Tell  us,  and  we'll  not  waste  time.  Tell  us,  and  we'll 
get  ahead  on  this  case.  Worth,  let  that  rubbish  alone. 
Nothing  there  for  us.  Come  here  and  listen." 

For  all  answer  he  straightened  up,  looked  at  us  with 
out  a  word — and  went  to  it  again.  I  turned  to  the 
girl. 

"Worth  doesn't  need  to  listen  to  me,  Mr.  Boyne," 
she  said  serenely.  "He  already  has  full  faith  in  me 
and  my  methods." 

"Methods  be — be  blowed !"  I  exploded.  "It's  results 
that  count,  and  you've  produced.  I'm  willing  to  hand 


THE  GOLD  NUGGET  81 

it  to  you.  All  we  know  now,  we  got  from  you.  Be 
side  you  I'm  a  thick-headed  blunderer.  Let  me  in  on 
how  you  get  things  and  I  wont  be  so  hard  to  con 
vince." 

"Indeed,  you  aren't  a  blunderer,"  she  said  warmly. 
"You  do  a  lot  better  than  most  people  at  observing." 
(High  praise  that,  for  a  detective  more  than  twenty 
years  in  the  business ;  but  she  meant  to  be  complimen 
tary.)  "I'm  glad  to  tell  you  my  processes.  How 
much  time  do  you  want  to  give  to  it?" 

"Not  a  minute  longer  than  will  get  what  you  know." 
And  she  began  with  a  rush. 

"Those  dents  in  the  coping  at  the  St.  Dunstan,  above 
Clayte's  window — I  asked  the  clerk  there  how  long 
since  the  building  had  been  reroofed,  because  there 
were  nicks  made  by  that  hook  and  half  filled  with  tar 
that  had  been  slushed  up  against  the  coping  and  into 
the  lowest  dents.  You  see  what  that  means?" 

"That  Clayte — or  some  accomplice  of  his — had  been 
using  the  route  more  than  four  years  ago.  Yes." 

"And  the  other  scars  were  made  at  varying  times, 
showing  me  that  coming  over  here  from  there  was 
quite  a  regular  thing." 

"At  that  rate  he  would  have  nicked  the  coping 
until  it  would  have  looked  like  a  huck  towel,"  I 
objected. 

"A  huck  towel,"  she  gravely  adopted  my  word. 
"But  he  was  a  man  that  did  everything  he  did  several 
different  ways.  That  was  his  habit — a  sort  of  disguise. 
That's  why  he  was  shadowy  and  hard  to  describe. 
Sometimes  he  came  up  to  the  St.  Dunstan  roof  just 
as  we  did;  and  once,  a  good  while  ago,  there  were 
cleats  on  that  wall  there  so  he  could  climb  down  here 


82      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

without  the  rope.  They  have  been  taken  away  some 
time,  and  the  places  where  they  were  are  weathered 
over  so  you  would  hardly  notice  them." 

"Right  you  are,"  I  said  feelingly.  "I'd  hardly 
notice  them.  If  I  could  notice  things  as  you  do — 
fame  and  fortune  for  me!"  I  thought  the  matter  over 
for  a  minute.  "That  lodger  on  the  top  floor,  Steve 
Skeels,"  I  debated.  "A  poor  bet.  Yet— after  all,  he 
might  have  been  a  member  of  the  gang,  though  some 
how  I  don't  get  the -hunch — " 

"What  sort  of  looking  person  was  this  man  Skeels?" 
she  asked. 

"Quiet  fellow.  Dressed  like  a  church  deacon. 
'Silent  Steve'  they  call  him.  I'll  send  for  him  down 
stairs  and  let  you  give  him  the  once-over  if  you  like." 

"Oh,  that's  not  the  kind  of  man  I'm  looking  for." 
She  shook  her  head.  "My  man  would  be  more  like 
those  down  there  in  the  easy  chairs — so  he  wasn't 
noticed  in  the  elevator  or  when  he  passed  out  through 
the  office." 

"Wasn't  it  cute  of  him?"  I  grinned.  "But  you  see 
we've  just  heard  that  he  didn't  take  the  elevator  and  go 
through  the  office — Saturday  anyhow,  which  is  the 
only  time  that  really  counts  for  us,  the  time  when  he 
carried  that  suitcase  with  a  fortune  in  it." 

"But  he  did,"  she  persisted.  "He  went  that  way. 
He  walked  out  the  front  door  and  carried  away  the 
suitcase — " 

"He  didn't!"  Worth  shouted,  and  began  throwing 
things  behind  him  like  a  terrier  in  a  wood-rat's 
burrow. 

Derelict  stuff  of  all  sorts;  empty  boxes,  pasteboard 
cartons,  part  of  an  old  trunk,  he  hurtled  them  into  a 


THE  GOLD  NUGGET  83 

heap,  and  dragged  out  a  square  something  in  a  gunny 
sack.  As  he  jerked  to  clear  it  from  the  sacking,  I 
glanced  at  little  Miss  Wallace.  She  wasn't  getting 
any  pleasureable  kick  out  of  the  situation.  Her  eyes 
seemed  to  go  wider  open  with  a  sort  of  horror,  her 
face  paled  as  she  drooped  in  on  herself,  sitting  there 
on  the  box.  Then  Worth  held  up  his  find  in  triumph, 
assuming  a  famous  attitude. 

"The  world  is  mine!"  he  cried. 

"Maybe  'tis,  maybe  'tisn't,"  I  said  as  I  ran  across  to 
look  at  the  thing  close.  Sure  enough,  he'd  dug  up  a 
respectable  brown,  sole  leather  suitcase  with  brass 
trimmings  such  as  a  bank  clerk  might  have  carried, 
suspiciously  much  too  good  to  have  been  thrown  out 
here.  Could  it  be  that  the  thieves  had  indeed  met  in 
one  of  the  Gold  Nugget's  rooms  or  in  the  roof-house 
up  here,  made  their  divvy,  split  the  swag,  and  thus 
clumsily  disposed  of  the  container?  At  the  moment, 
Worth  tore  buckles  and  latches  free,  yanked  the  thing 
open,  reversed  it  in  air — and  out  fell  a  coiled  rope 
that  curved  itself  like  a  snake — a  three-headed  snake; 
the  triple  grappling  iron  at  its  end  standing  up  as 
though  to  hiss. 

We  all  stood  staring;  I  was  too  stunned  to  be  tri 
umphant.  What  a  pat  confirmation  of  Miss  Wallace's 
deductions!  I  turned  to  congratulate  her  and  at  the 
same  instant  Worth  cried, 

"What's  the  matter,  Bobs?"  for  the  girl  was  sitting, 
staring  dejectedly,  her  chin  cupped  in  her  palms,  her 
lips  quivering.  Nonplussed,  I  stooped  over  the  suit 
case  and  rope,  coiling  up  the  one,  putting  it  in  the  other 
— this  first  bit  of  tangible,  palpable  evidence  we'd 
lighted  on. 


84     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Let's  get  out  of  this,"  I  said  quickly.  "We've 
done  all  we  can  here — and  good  and  plenty  it  is,  too." 

Worth  took  the  suitcase  out  of  my  hands  and  carried 
it,  so  that  I  had  to  help  Miss  Wallace  down  the  ladder. 
She  still  looked  as  though  she'd  lost  her  last  friend. 
I  couldn't  make  her  out.  Never  a  word  from  her 
while  we  were  getting  down,  or  while  they  waited  and 
I  shouted  for  Louie.  It  was  in  the  elevator,  with  the 
porter  looking  at  everything  on  earth  but  this  suitcase 
we  hadn't  brought  in  and  we  were  taking  out,  that  she 
said,  hardly  above  her  breath, 

"Shall  you  ask  at  the  desk  if  this  ever  belonged  to 
any  one  in  the  house?" 

"Find  out  here — right  now,"  and  I  turned  to  the 
man  in  overalls  with,  "How  about  it?" 

"Not  that  your  answer  will  make  any  difference," 
Worth  cut  in  joyously.  "Nobody  need  get  the  idea 
that  they  can  take  this  suitcase  away  from  me — 'cause 
they  can't.  It's  mine.  I  paid  eight  hundred  thousand 
dollars  for  this  box ;  and  I've  got  a  use  for  it."  He 
chuckled.  Louie  regarded  him  with  uncomprehending 
toleration — queer  doings  were  the  order  of  the  day  at 
the  Gold  Nugget — and  allowed  negligently. 

"You'll  get  to  keep  it.  It  don't  belong  here." 
Then,  as  a  coin  changed  hands,  "Thank  you." 

"But  didn't  it  ever  belong  here?"  our  girl  persisted 
forlornly,  and  when  Louie  failed  her,  jingling  Worth's 
tip  in  his  calloused  palm,  she  wanted  the  women  asked, 
and  we  had  a  frowsy  chambermaid  called  who  denied 
any  acquaintance  with  our  sole  leather  discovery,  in 
sisting,  upon  definite  inquiry,  that  she  had  never  seen 
it  in  Skeels'  room,  or  any  other  room  of  her  domain. 
Little  Miss  Wallace  sighed  and  dropped  the  subject. 


THE  GOLD  NUGGET  85 

As  we  stepped  out  of  the  elevator,  I  behind  the 
others,  Kite  caught  my  attention  with  a  low  whistle, 
and  in  response  to  a  furtive,  beckoning,  backward  jerk 
of  his  head,  I  moved  over  to  the  desk.  The  reading 
gentlemen  in  the  easy  chairs,  most  consciously  uncon 
scious  of  us,  sent  blue  smoke  circles  above  their  papers. 
Kite  leaned  far.  over  to  get  his  mustache  closer  to  my 
ear. 

"You  ast  me  about  Steve,"  he  whispered. 

"Yeah,"  I  agreed,  and  looked  around  for  Barbara, 
to  tell  her  here  was  her  chance  to  meet  the  gentleman 
she  had  so  cleverly  deduced.  But  she  and  Worth  were 
already  getting  through  the  door,  he  still  clinging  to 
the  suitcase,  she  trailing  along  with  that  expression  of 
defeat.  "I'm  sort  of  looking  up  Steve.  And  you 
don't  want  to  tip  him  off — see?" 

"Couldn't  if  I  wanted  to,  Jerry,"  the  Kite  came  down 
on  his  heels,  but  continued  to  whisper  hoarsely. 
"Steve's  bolted." 

"What?" 

"Bolted,"  the  Kite  repeated.  "Hopped  the  twig. 
Jumped  the  town." 

"You  mean  he's  not  in  his  room?"  I  reached  for 
a  match  in  the  metal  holder,  scratched  it,  and  lit  my 
cigar. 

"I  mean  he's  jumped  the  town,"  Kite  repeated. 
"You  got  me  nervous  asking  for  him  that  way.  While 
you  was  on  the  roof,  I  took  a  squint  around  and  found 
he  was  gone — with  his  hand  baggage.  That  means 
he's  gone  outa  town." 

"Not  if  the  suitcase  you  squinted  for  was  a  brown 
sole  leather — "  I  was  beginning,  but  the  Kite  cut  in  on 
me. 


86      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"I  seen  that  one  you  had.  That  wasn't  it.  His  was 
a  brand  new  one,  black  and  shiny." 

Suddenly  I  couldn't  taste  my  cigar  at  all. 

"Know  what  time  to-day  he  left  here?"   I  asked. 

"It  wasn't  to-day.  'Twas  yestiddy.  About  one 
o'clock." 

As  I  plunged  for  the  door  I  was  conscious  of  his 
hoarse  whisper  following  me, 

"What's  Steve  done,  Jerry?  What  d'ye  want  him 
for?"' 

I  catapulted  across  the  sidewalk  and  into  the 
machine. 

"Get  me  to  my  office  as  fast  as  you  can,  Worth/'  I 
exclaimed.  "Hit  Bush  Street — and  rush  it." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  TIN-HORN  GAMBLER 

AFTER  we  were  in  the  machine,  my  head  was  so 
full  of  the  matter  in  hand  that  Worth  had 
driven  some  little  distance  before  I  realized  that  the 
young  people  were  debating  across  me  as  to  which 
place  we  went  first,  Barbara  complaining  that  she  was 
hungry,  while  Worth  ungallantly  eager  to  give  his  own 
affairs  immediate  attention,  argued, 

"You  said  the  dining-room  out  at  your  diggings 
would  be  closed  by  this  time.  Why  not  let  me  take 
you  down  to  the  Palace,  along  with  Jerry,  have  this 
suitcase  safely  locked  up,  and  we  can  all  lunch  together 
and  get  ahead  with  our  talk." 

"Drive  to  the  office,  Worth,"  I  cut  in  ahead  of 
Barbara's  objections  to  this  plan.  "I  ought  to  be 
there  this  minute.  We'll  have  a  tray  in  from  a  little 
joint  that  feeds  me  when  I'm  too  busy  to  go  out  for 
grub." 

I  took  them  straight  into  my  private  office  at  the 
end  of  the  suite. 

"Make  yourself  comfortable,"  I  said  to  Miss 
Wallace.  "Better  let  me  lock  up  that  suitcase,  Worth ; 
stick  it  in  the  vault.  That's  evidence." 

"I'll  hang  on  to  it."  He  grinned.  "You  can  keep 
the  rope  and  hook.  This  has  got  another  use  before 
it  can  be  evidence." 

Not  even  delaying  to  remove  my  coat,  I  laid  a  heavy 

87 


88     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

finger  on  the  buzzer  button  for  Roberts,  my  secretary ; 
then  as  nothing  resulted,  I  played  music  on  the  other 
signal  tips  beneath  the  desk  lid.  It  was  Sunday,  also 
luncheon  hour,  but  there  must  be  some  one  about  the 
place.  It  never  was  left  entirely  empty. 

My  fugue  work  brought  little  Pete,  and  Murray, 
one  of  the  men  from  the  operatives'  room. 

"Where's  Roberts?"  I  asked  the  latter. 

"He  went  to  lunch,  Mr.  Boyne." 

"Where's  Foster?"     Foster  was  chief  operative. 

"He  telephoned  in  from  Redwood  City  half  an  hour 
ago.  Chasing  a  Clayte  clue  down  the  peninsula." 

"If  he  calls  up  again,  tell  him  to  report  in  at  once. 
Is  there  a  stenographer  about?" 

"Not  a  one ;  Sunday,  you  know." 

"Can  you  take  dictation?" 

"Me?     Why,  no,  sir." 

"Then  dig  me  somebody  who  can.  And  rush  it. 
I've—" 

"Perhaps  I  might  help."  It  was  little  Miss  Wallace 
who  spoke;  about  the  first  cheerful  word  I'd  heard 
out  of  her  since  we  found  that  suitcase  on  the  roof 
of  the  Gold  Nugget.  "I  can  take  on  the  machine 
fairly." 

"Fine!"  I  tossed  my  coat  on  the  big  center  table. 
"Murray,  send  Roberts  to  me  as  soon  as  he  comes  in. 
You  take  number  two  trunk  line,  and  find  two  of  the 
staff — quick;  any  two.  Shoot  them  to  the  Gold 
Nugget  Hotel."  I  explained  the  situation  in  a  word. 
Then,  as  he  was  closing  the  door,  "Keep  off  Number 
One  trunk,  Murray;  I'll  be  using  that  line,"  and  I 
turned  to  little  Pete. 


A  TIN-HORN  GAMBLER  89 

"Get  lunch  for  three,"  I  said,  handing  him  a  bill. 
From  his  first  glance  at  Barbara  one  could  have  seen 
that  the  monkey  was  hers  truly,  as  they  say  at  the  end 
of  letters.  I  knew  as  he  bolted  out  that  he  felt  some 
thing  very  special  ought  to  be  dug  up  for  such  a 
visitor. 

The  girl  had  shed  coat  and  hat  and  was  already 
fingering  the  keys  of  the  typewriter,  trying  their  touch. 
I  saw  at  once  she  knew  her  business,  and  I  turned  to 
the  work  at  hand  with  satisfaction. 

"You'll  find  telegram  blanks  there  somewhere,"  I 
instructed.  "Get  as  many  in  for  manifold  copies  as 
you  can  make  readable.  The  long  form.  Worth — " 

I  looked  around  to  find  that  my  other  amateur 
assistant  was  following  my  advice,  stowing  his 
precious  suitcase  in  the  vault ;  and  it  struck  me  that  he 
couldn't  have  been  more  tickled  with  the  find  if  the 
thing  had  contained  all  the  money  and  securities  in 
stead  of  that  rope  and  hook.  He  had  made  the  latter 
into  a  separate  package,  and  now  looked  up  at  me  with, 

"Want  this  in  here,  too,  Jerry?" 

"I  do.  Lock  them  both  up,  and  come  take  the  tele 
phone  at  the  table  there.  Press  down  Number  One 
button.  Then  call  every  taxi  stand  in  the  city  (find 
their  numbers  at  the  back  of  the  telephone  directory) 
and  ask  if  they  picked  up  Silent  Steve  at  or  near  the 
Gold  Nugget  yesterday  afternoon  about  one;  Steve 
Skeels — or  any  other  man.  If  so,  where'd  they  take 
him?  Get  me?" 

"All  hunk,  Jerry."  He  came  briskly  to  the  job. 
I  returned  to  Miss  Wallace,  with, 

"Ready,  Barbara?" 


90      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Yes,  Mr.  Boyne." 

"Take  dictation : 

"  'We  offer  five  hundred  dollars — '  You  authorize 
that,  Worth?" 

"Sure.     What's  it  for?" 

"Never  mind.  You  keep  at  your  job.  'Five  hun 
dred  dollars  for  the  arrest  of  Silent  Steve  Skeels — ' 
Wait.  Make  that  'arrest  or  detention.'  Got  it?" 

"All  right,  Mr.  Boyne." 

— "  'Skeels,  gambler,  who  left  San  Francisco  about 
one  in  the  afternoon  yesterday  March  sixth.  Pre 
sumed  he  went  by  train;  maybe  by  auto.  He  is 
man  thirty-eight  to  forty;  five  feet  seven  or  eight; 
weighs  about  one  hundred  forty.  Hair,  light  brown; 
eyes  light  blue — '  Make  it  gray-blue,  Barbara." 

Worth  glanced  up  from  where  he  was  jotting  down 
telephone  numbers  to  drawl, 

"You  know  who  you're  describing  there?" 

"Yes— Steve  Skeels." 

I  saw  Miss  Wallace  give  him  a  quick  look,  a  little 
shake  of  her  head,  as  she  said  to  me. 

"Go  on — please,  Mr.  Boyne." 

"  'Hair  parted  high,  smoothed  down ;  appears  of 
slight  build  but  is  well  muscled.  Neat  dresser,  quiet, 
usually  wears  blue  serge  suit,  black  derby  hat,  black 
shoes.'  " 

"By  Golly — you  see  it  now  yourself,  don't  you, 
Jerry?" 

"I  see  that  you're  holding  up  work,"  I  said  im 
patiently.  And  now  it  was  the  quiet  girl  who  came  in 
with. 

"Who  gave  you  this  description  of  Steve  Skeels? 


A  TIN-HORN  GAMBLER  91 

I  mean,  how  many  people's  observation  of  the  man 
does  this  represent?" 

"One.  My  own,"  I  jerked  out.  "I  know  Skeels; 
have  known  him  for  years." 

"Years  ?    How  many  ?"    It  was  still  the  girl  asking. 

"Since  1907 — or  thereabouts." 

"Was  he  always  a  gambler?"  she  wanted  to  know. 

"Always.  Ran  a  joint  on  Fillmore  Street  after  the 
big  earthquake,  and  before  San  Francisco  came  back 
downtown." 

"A  gambler,"  she  spoke  the  word  just  above  her 
breath,  as  though  trying  it  out  with  herself.  "A  man 
who  took  big  chances — risks." 

"Not  Steve,"  I  smiled  at  her  earnestness.  "Steve 
was  a  piker  always — a  tin-horn  gambler.  Hid  away 
from  the  police  instead  of  doing  business  with  them. 
Take  a  chance?  Not  Steve." 

Worth  had  left  the  telephone  and  was  leaning  over 
her  shoulder  to  read  what  she  had  typed. 

"Exactly  and  precisely,"  he  said,  "the  same  words 
you  had  in  that  other  fool  description  of  him." 

"Of  whom?" 

"Clayte." 

Worth  let  me  have  the  one  word  straight  between 
the  eyes,  and  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair,  the  breath 
almost  knocked  out  of  me  by  it.  By  an  effort  I 
pulled  myself  together  and  turned  to  the  girl : 

"Take  dictation,  please :  Skeel's  eyes  are  wide 
apart,  rather  small  but  keen — " 

And  for  the  next  few  minutes  I  was  making  words 
mean  something,  drawing  a  picture  of  the  Skeels  I 
knew,  so  that  others  could  visualize  him.  And  it 


92      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

brought  me  a  word  of  commendation  from  Miss  Wal 
lace,  and  made  Worth  exclaim, 

"Sounds  more  like  Clayte  than  Clayte  himself. 
You've  put  flesh  on  those  bones,  Jerry." 

"You  keep  busy  at  that  phone  and  help  land  him," 
I  growled.  "Finish,  please:  'Wire  information  to 
me.  I  hold  warrant.  Jeremiah  Boyne,  Bankers'  Se 
curity  Agency.'  That's  all." 

The  girl  pulled  the  sheets  from  the  machine  and 
sorted  them  while  I  was  stabbing  the  buzzer.  Roberts 
answered,  breezing  in  with  an  apology  which  I  nipped. 

"Never  mind  that.  Get  this  telegram  on  the  wires 
to  each  of  our  corresponding  agencies  as  far  east  as 
Spokane,  Ogden  and  Denver.  Has  Murray  got  in 
touch  with  Foster?" 

"Not  yet.     Young  and  Stroud  are  outside." 

"Send  them  to  bring  in  Steve  Skeels,"  I  ordered. 
"Description  on  the  telegram  there.  Any  word, 
Worth?" 

"Nothing  yet."  Worth  was  calling  one  after  an 
other  of  the  taxi  offices.  Little  Pete  came  in  with  a 
tray. 

"All  right,  Worth,"  I  said.  "Turn  that  job  over 
to  .Roberts.  Here's  where  we  eat." 

The  kid's  idea  of  catering  for  Barbara  was  club 
sandwiches  and  pie  a  la  mode.  It  wouldn't  have  been 
mine ;  but  I  was  glad  to  note  that  he'd  guessed  right. 
The  youngsters  fell  to  with  appetite.  For  myself,  I 
ate,  the  receiver  at  my  ear,  talking  between  bites. 
San  Jose,  Stockton,  Santa  Rosa — in  all  the  nearby 
towns  of  size,  I  placed  the  drag-net  out  for  Silent 
Steve,  tin-horn  gambler. 

They   talked   as   they   lunched.     I   didn't   pay   any 


A  TIN-HORN  GAMBLER  93 

attention  to  what  they  said  now ;  my  mind  was  racing 
at  the  new  idea  Worth  had  given  me.  So  far,  I  had 
been  running  Skeels  down  as  one  of  the  same  gang 
with  Clayte;  the  man  on  the  roof;  the  go-between  for 
the  getaway.  My  supposition  was  that  when  the  suit 
case  was  emptied  for  division,  Skeels,  being  left  to 
dispose  of  the  container,  had  stuck  it  where  we  found 
it.  But  what  if  the  thing  worked  another  way? 
What  if  all  the  money — almost  a  round  million — which 
came  to  the  Gold  Nugget  roof  in  the  brown  sole- 
leather  case,  walked  out  of  its  front  door  in  the  new 
black  shiny  carrier  of  Skeels  the  gambler? 

Could  that  be  worked  ?  A  gambler  at  night,  a  bank 
employee  by  day  ?  Why  not  ?  Improbable.  But  not 
impossible. 

"I  believe  you  said  a  mouthful,  Worth,"  I  broke  in 
on  the  two  at  their  lunch.  "And  tell  me,  girl,  how 
did  you  get  the  idea  of  walking  up  to  the  desk  at  the 
Gold  Nugget  and  demanding  Steve  Skeels  from  the 
Kite?" 

"I  didn't  demand  Steve  Skeels,"  she  reminded  me 
rather  plaintively.  "I  didn't  want — him." 

"What  did  you  want?" 

"A  room  that  had  been  lived  in." 

She  didn't  need  to  add  a  word  to  that.  I  got  her 
in  the  instant.  That  examination  of  hers  in  Clayte's 
room  at  the  St.  Dunstan;  the  crisp,  new-looking  bed 
ding,  the  unworn  velvet  of  the  chair  cushions;  the 
faded  nap  of  the  carpet,  quite  perfect,  while  that  in  the 
hall  had  just  been  renewed.  Even  had  the  room  been 
done  over  recently — and  I  knew  it  had  not — there  was 
no  getting  around  the  total  absence  of  photographs, 
pictures,  books,  magazines,  newspapers,  old  letters,  the 


94      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

lack  of  all  the  half  worn  stuff  that  collects  about  an 
occupied  apartment.  No  pinholes  or  defacements  on 
the  walls,  none  of  the  litter  that  accumulates.  The 
girl  was  right;  that  room  hadn't  been  lived  in. 

"Beautiful,"  I  said  in  honest  admiration.  "It's  a 
pleasure  to  see  a  mind  like  yours,  and  such  powers  of 
observation,  in  action,  clicking  out  results  like  a  per 
fectly  adjusted  machine.  Clayte  didn't  live  in  his 
room  because  he  lived  with  the  gang  all  his  glorious 
outside  hours.  There  was  where  the  poor  rabbit  of 
a  bank  clerk  got  his  fling." 

"Oh,  yes,  it  works  logically.  He  held  himself  down 
to  Clayte  at  the  St.  Dunstan  and  in  the  bank,  and  he 
let  himself  go  to — what? — outside  of  it,  beyond  it, 
where  he  really  lived." 

"He  let  himself  go  to  Steve  Skeels — won't  that  do 
you?" 

"No,"  she  said  so  positively  that  it  was  annoying. 
"That  won't  do  me  at  all." 

"But  it's  what  you  got,"  I  reminded  her  rather  un 
kindly,  and  then  was  sorry  I'd  done  it.  "It's  what 
you  got  for  me — and  I  thank  you  for  it." 

"You  needn't,"  she  came  back  at  me — spunky  little 
thing.  "It  isn't  worth  thanking  anybody  for.  It's 
only  a  partial  fact." 

"And  you  think  half  truths  are  dangerous?"  I 
smiled  at  her. 

"There  isn't  any  such  thing,"  she  instructed  me. 
"Even  facts  can  hardly  be  split  into  fractions;  while 
the  truth  is  always  whole  and  complete." 

"As  far  as  you  see  it,"  I  amended.  "For  instance, 
you  insist  on  keeping  the  gang  all  under  Clayte's  hat 
you  did  at  first.  Now  you're  refusing  to  believe, 


A  TIN-HORN  GAMBLER  95 

as  both  Worth  and  I  believe,  that  Steve  Skeels  is 
Clayte  himself.  I  should  think  you'd  jump  at  the 
idea.  Here's  your  Wonder  Man." 

She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  laughed.  I  was 
glad  to  hear  the  sound  again,  see  the  dimples  flicker 
in  her  cheeks,  even  if  she  was  laughing  at  me. 

"A  wonderful  Wonder  Man,  Mr.  Boyne,"  she  said. 
"One  who*  does  things  so  bunglingly  that  you  can 
follow  him  right  up  and  put  your  hand  on  him." 

"Not  so  I  could,"  I  reminded  her  gaily.  "So  you 
could.  Quite  a  different  matter."  She  took  my  com 
pliment  sweetly,  but  she  said  with  smiling  reluctance, 

"I'm  not  in  this,  of  course,  except  that  your  kind 
ness  allowed  me  to  be  for  this  day  only.  But  if  I 
were,  I  shouldn't  be  following  Skeels  as  you  are.  I'd 
still  be  after  Clayte." 

"It  foots  up  to  the  same  thing,"  I  said  rather  tartly. 

"Oh,  does  it?"  she  laughed  at  me.  "Two  and  two 
are  making  about  three  and  a  half  this  afternoon,  are 
they?" 

"What  we've  got  to-day  ought  to  land  something," 
I  maintained.  "You've  'been  fine  help,  Barbara — " 
and  I  broke  off  suddenly  with  the  knowledge  that  I'd 
been  calling  her  that  all  through  the  rush  of  the  work. 

"Thank  you."  She  smiled  inclusively.  I  knew  she 
meant  my  use  of  her  name  as  well  as  my  commenda 
tion.  I  began  clearing  my  desk  preparatory  to  leaving. 
Worth  was  going  to  take  her  home  and  as  he  brought 
her  coat,  he  spoke  again  of  the  suitcase. 

"Hey,  there!"  I  remonstrated,  "You  don't  want  to 
be  lugging  that  thing  with  you  everywhere,  like  a 
three-year-old  kid  that's  found  a  dead  cat.  Leave  it 
where  it  is." 


96     THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Give  me  an  order  for  it  then,"  he  said.  And  when 
I  looked  surprised,  "Might  need  that  box,  and  you  not 
be  in  the  office." 

"Need  it?"  I  grumbled.  "I'd  like  to  know  what 
for." 

But  I  scribbled  the  order.  Over  by  the  window  the 
young  people  were  talking  together  earnestly ;  they 
made  a  picture  against  the  light,  standing  close,  the 
girl's  vivid  dark  face  raised,  the  lad's  tall  head  bent, 
attentive. 

"But,  Bobs,  you  must  get  some  time  to  play  about," 
I  heard  Worth  say. 

"Awfully  little,"  Her  look  up  at  him  was  like  that 
of  a  wistful  child. 

"You  said  you  were  in  the  accounting  department," 
he  urged  impatiently.  "A  lightning  calculator  like 
you  could  put  that  stuff  through  in  about  one  tenth 
of  the  usual  time." 

"I  use  an  adding  machine,"  she  half  whispered,  and 
it  made  me  chuckle. 

"An  adding  machine!"  Worth  exploded  in  a  peal 
of  laughter.  "For  Barbara  Wallace!  What's  their 
idea?" 

"It  isn't  their  idea ;  it's  mine,"  with  dignity.  "They 
don't  know  that  I  used  to  be  a  freak  mathematician. 
I  don't  want  them  to.  Father  used  to  say  that  all 
children  could  be  trained  to  do  all  that  I  did — if  you 
took  them  young  enough.  But  till  they  are,  I'd  rather 
not  be.  It's  horrid  to  be  different;  and  I'm  keeping 
it  to  myself — in  the  office  anyhow — and  living  my 
past  down  the  best  I  can." 

As  though  her  words  had  suggested  it,  Worth  spoke 
again, 


A  TIN-HORN  GAMBLER  97 

"Where  did  you  meet  Cummings?  Seems  you  find 
time  to  go  out  with  him." 

"I've  known  Mr.  Cummings  for  years,"  Barbara 
spoke  quietly,  but  she  looked  self-conscious.  "I  knew 
he  was  with  those  friends  of  mine  at  the  Orpheum 
last  night,  but  I  didn't  expect  him  to  call  for  me  at 
Tait's — or  rather  I  thought  they'd  all  come  in  after 
me.  There  wasn't  anything  special  about  it — no 
special  appointment  with  him,  I  mean." 

I  had  forgotten  them  for  a  minute  or  two,  closing 
my  desk,  finding  my  coat,  when  I  heard  some  one 
come  into  the  outer  office,  a  visitor,  for  little  Pete's 
voice  went  up  to  a  shrill  yap  with  the  information 
that  I  was  busy.  Then  the  knob  turned,  the  door 
opened,  and  there  stood  Cummings.  At  first  he  saw 
only  me  at  the  desk. 

"Your  friend  calling  for  you  again,  Bobs — by  ap 
pointment?"  Worth's  question  drew  the  lawyer's 
glance,  and  he  stared  at  them  apparently  a  good  deal 
taken  aback,  while  Worth  added,  "Seems  to  keep  pretty 
close  tab  on  your  movements."  The  low  tone  might 
have  been  considered  joking,  but  there  was  war  in 
the  boy's  eye. 

It  was  as  though  Cummings  answered  the  challenge, 
rather  than  opened  with  what  he  had  intended. 

"My  business  is  with  you,  Gilbert."  He  came  in 
and  shut  the  door  behind  him,  leaving  his  hand  on  the 
knob.  "And  I've  been  some  time  finding  you."  He 
stopped  there,  and  was  so  long  about  getting  any 
thing  else  out  that  Worth  finally  suggested, 

"The  money?"  And  when  there  was  no  reply  but 
a  surprised  look,  "How  do  you  stand  now?" 

"Still  seventy-two  thousand  to  raise."     Cummings 


98      THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

spoke  vaguely.  This  was  not  what  had  brought  him 
to  the  office.  He  finished  with  the  abrupt  question, 
"Were  you  at  Santa  Ysobel  last  night?" 

"Hold  on,  Cummings,"  I  broke  in.  "What  you  got? 
Let  us— " 

I  was  shut  off  there  by  Worth's, 

"It's  Sunday  afternoon.  I  want  that  money  to 
morrow  morning.  You've  not  come  through  ?  You've 
not  dug  up  what  I  sent  you  after?" 

I  could  see  that  the  lawyer  was  absolutely  nonplussed. 
Again  he  gave  Worth  one  of  those  queer,  probing 
looks  before  he  said  doggedly, 

"The  question  of  that  money  can  wait." 

"It  can't  wait."  Worth's  eyes  began  to  light  up. 
"What  you  talking,  Cummings — an  extension?"  And 
when  the  lawyer  made  no  answer  to  this,  "I'll  not 
crawl  in  with  a  broken  leg  asking  favors  of  that  bank 
crowd.  Are  you  quitting  on  me?  If  so,  say  it — 
and  I'll  find  a  way  to  raise  the  sum,  myself." 

"I've  raised  all  but  seventy-two  thousand  of  the 
necessary  amount,"  said  Cummings  slowly.  "What 
I  want  to  know  is — how  much  have  you  raised?" 

"See  here,  Cummings,"  again  I  mixed  in.  "I  was 
present  when  that  arrangement  was  made.  Nothing 
was  said  about  Worth  raising  any  money." 

Cummings  barely  glanced  around  at  me  as  he  said, 
"I  made  a  suggestion  to  him;  in  your  presence,  as 
you  say,  Boyne.  I  want  to  know  if  he  carried  it  out." 
Then,  giving  his  full  attention  to  Worth,  "Did  you  see 
your  father  last  night?" 

On  instinct  I  blurted, 

"For  heaven's  sake,  keep  your  mouth  shut,  Worth!" 

For  a   detective  that  certainly  was  an  incautious 


A  TIN-HORN  GAMBLER  99 

speech.  Cummings'  eye  flared  suspicion  at  me,  and 
his  voice  was  a  menace. 

"You  keep  out  of  this,  Boyne." 

"You  tell  what's  up  your  sleeve,  Cummings,"  I  coun 
tered.  "This  is  no  witness-stand  cross-examination. 
What  you  got?" 

But  Worth  answered  for  him,  hotly, 

"If  Cummings  hasn't  seventy-two  thousand  dollars 
I  commissioned  him  to  raise  for  me,  I  don't  care  what 
he's  got." 

"And  you  didn't  go  to  your  father  for  it  last 
night?"  Cummings  returned  to  his  question.  He  had 
moved  close  to  the  boy.  Barbara  stood  just  where 
she  was  when  the  door  opened.  Neither  paid  any 
attention  to  her.  But  she  looked  at  the  two  men, 
drawn  up  with  glances  clinched,  and  spoke  out  sud 
denly  in  her  clear  young  voice,  as  though  there  was  no 
row  on  hand, 

"Worth  was  with  me  last  night,  you  know,  Mr. 
Cummings." 

"I  seem  to  have  noticed  something  of  the  sort," 
Cummings  said  with  labored  sarcasm.  "And  he'd 
been  with  that  wedding  party  earlier  in  the  evening, 
I  suppose." 

"With  me  till  Miss  Wallace  came  in."  Worth's 
natural  disposition  to  disoblige  the  lawyer  could  be 
depended  on  to  keep  from  Cummings  whatever  in 
formation  he  wanted  before  giving  us  his  own  news. 
"What  you  got,  Cummings?"  I  prompted  again,  im 
patiently.  "Come  through." 

His  eyes  never  shifted  an  instant  from  Worth  Gil 
bert's  face. 

"A  telegram — from  Santa  Ysobel,"  he  said  slowly. 


ioo    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

Worth  shrugged  and  half  turned  away. 

"I'm  not  interested  in  your  telegram,  Cummings." 

Instantly  I  saw  what  the  boy  thought :  that  the  other 
had  taken  it  on  himself  to  apply  for  the  money  to 
Thomas  Gilbert,  and  had  been  turned  down. 

"Not  interested?"  Cummings  repeated  in  that  dry, 
lawyer  voice  that  speaks  from  the  teeth  out;  on  the 
mere  tone,  I  braced  for  something  nasty.  "I  think 
you  are.  My  telegram's  from  the  coroner." 

Silence  after  that;  Worth  obstinately  mute;  Barbara 
and  I  afraid  to  ask.  There  was  a  little  tremor  of 
Cummings'  nostril,  he  couldn't  keep  the  flicker  out 
of  his  eye,  as  he  said,  staring  straight  at  Worth, 

"It  states  that  your  father  shot  himself  last  night. 
The  body  wasn't  discovered  till  late  this  morning,  in 
his  study." 


CHAPTER  IX 

SANTA  YSOBEI, 

OF  all  unexpected  things.  I  went  down  to  Santa 
Ysobel  with  Worth  Gilbert.  It  happened  this 
way:  Cummings,  one  of  those  individuals  on  whose 
tombstone  may  truthfully  be  put,  "Born  a  man — and 
died  a  lawyer,"  seemed  rather  taken  aback  at  the  effect 
of  the  blow  he'd  launched.  If  he  was  after  informa 
tion,  I  can't  think  he  learned  much  in  the  moment 
while  Worth  stood  regarding  him  with  an  unreadable 
eye. 

There  was  only  a  little  grimmer  tightening  of  the 
jaw  muscle,  something  bleak  and  robbed  in  the  glance 
of  the  eye;  the  face  of  one,  it  seemed  to  me,  who 
grieved  the  more  because  he  was  denied  real  sorrow 
for  his  loss,  and  Worth  had  tramped  to  the  window 
and  stood  with  his  back  to  us,  putting  the  thing  over 
in  his  silent,  fighting  fashion,  speaking  to  none  of  us. 
It  was  when  Barbara  followed,  took  hold  of  his 
sleeve  and  began  half  whispering  up  into  his  face  that 
Cummings  jerked  his  hat  from  the  table  where  he 
had  thrown  it,  and  snapped, 

"Boyne — can  I  have  a  few  minutes  of  your  time?" 

"Jerry,"  Worth's  voice  halted  me  at  the  door, 
"Leave  that  card — an  order — for  me.  For  the  suit 
case." 

Cummings  was  ahead  of  me,  and  he  turned  back  to 

101 


102    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

listen,  but  I  crowded  him  along  and  was  pretty  hot 
when  I  faced  him  in  the  outer  office  to  demand, 

"What  kind  of  a  deal  do  you  call  this — ripping  in 
here  to  throw  this  thing  at  the  boy  in  such  a  way? 
What  is  your  idea?  What  you  trying  to  put  over?" 

"Go  easy,  Boyne."  Cummings  chewed  his  words 
a  little  before  he  let  them  out.  "There's  something 
queer  in  this  business.  I  intend  to  know  what  it  is." 

"Queer,"  I  repeated  his  word.  "If  the  lawyers  and 
the  detectives  get  to  running  down  all  the  queer  things 
— that  don't  concern  them  a  little  bit — the  world  won't 
have  any  more  peace." 

"All  right,  if  you  say  it  doesn't  concern  you,"  Cum 
mings  threw  me  overboard  with  relief  I  thought.  "It 
does  concern  me.  When  I  couldn't  get — him" — a  jerk 
of  the  head  indicated  that  the  pronoun  stood  for  Worth 
— "at  the  Palace,  found  he'd  been  out  all  day  and  left 
no  word  at  the  desk  when  he  expected  to  be  in,  I 
took  my  telegram  to  Knapp,  and  then  to  Whipple. 
They  were  flabbergasted." 

"The  bank  crowd,"  I  said.  "Now  why  did  you 
run  to  them?  On  account  of  Worth's  engagement 
with  them  to-morrow  morning?  Wasn't  that  exceed 
ing  your  orders?  You  saw  that  he  intends  to  meet 
it,  in  spite  of  this." 

"Why  not  because  of  this?"  Cummings  demanded 
sharply.  "He's  in  better  shape  to  meet  it  now  his 
father's  dead.  He's  the  only  heir.  That's  the  first 
thing  Knapp  and  Whipple  spoke  of — and  I  saw  them 
separately." 

"Can  that  stuff.  What  do  you  think  you're  hint 
ing  at?" 

"Something  queer,"  he  repeated  his  phrase.     "Wake 


SANTA  YSOBEL  103 

up,  Boyne.  Knapp  and  Whipple  both  saw  Thomas 
Gilbert  a  little  before  noon  yesterday.  He  was  in  the 
bank  for  the  final  transfer  of  the  Hanford  interests. 
They'd  as  soon  have  thought  of  my  committing  sui 
cide  that  night — or  you  doing  it.  They  swear  there 
was  nothing  in  his  manner  or  bearing  to  suggest  such 
a  state  of  mind,  and  everything  in  the  business  he  was 
engaged  on  to  suggest  that  he  expected  to  live  out  his 
days  like  any  man." 

I  thought  very  little  of  this;  it  is  common  in  cases 
of  suicide  for  family,  friends  or  business  associates 
to  talk  in  exactly  this  way,  to  believe  it,  and  yet  for 
the  deep-seated  moving  cause  to  be  easily  discovered 
by  an  unprejudiced  outsider.  I  said  as  much  to  Cum- 
mings.  And  while  I  spoke,  we  could  hear  a  murmur 
of  young  voices  from  the  inner  room. 

"Damn  it  all,"  the  lawyer's  irritation  spurted  out 
suddenly,  "With  a  cub  like  that  for  a  son,  I'd  say 
the  reason  wasn't  far  to  seek.  Better  keep  your  eye 
peeled  round  that  young  man,  Boyne." 

"I  will,"  I  agreed,  and  he  took  his  departure.  I 
turned  back  into  the  private  room. 

"Worth" — I  put  it  quietly — "what  say  I  go  to  Santa 
Ysobel  with  you  ?  You  could  bring  me  back  Monday 
morning." 

He  agreed  at  once,  silently,  but  thankfully  I  thought. 

Barbara,  listening,  proposed  half  timidly  to  go 
with  us,  staying  the  night  at  the  Thornhill  place,  being 
brought  back  before  work  time  Monday,  and  was  ac 
cepted  simply.  So  it  came  that  when  we  had  a  blow 
out  as  the  crown  of  a  dozen  other  petty  disasters 
which  had  delayed  our  progress  toward  Santa  Ysobel, 
and  found  our  spare  tire  flat,  Barbara  jumped  down 


104    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

beside  Worth  where  he  stood  dragging  out  the  pump, 
and  stopped  him,  suggesting  that  we  save  time  by 
running  the  last  few  miles  on  the  rim  and  getting 
fixed  up  at  Capehart's  garage.  He  climbed  in  with 
out  a  word,  and  drove  on  toward  where  Santa  Ysobel 
lies  at  the  head  of  its  broad  valley,  surrounded  by  the 
apricot,  peach  and  prune  orchards  that  are  its  wealth. 

We  came  into  the  fringes  of  the  town  in  the  ob 
scurity  of  approaching  night;  a  thick  tulle  fog  had 
blown  down  on  the  north  wind.  The  little  foot-hill 
city  was  all  drowned  in  it;  tree-tops,  roofs,  the  gable 
ends  of  houses,  the  illuminated  dial  of  the  town  clock 
on  the  city  hall,  sticking  up  from  the  blur  like  things 
seen  in  a  dream.  As  we  headed  for  a  garage  with 
the  name  Capehart  on  it,  we  heard,  soft,  muffled,  seven 
strokes  from  the  tower. 

"Getting  in  late,"  Worth  said  absently.  "Bill  still 
keeps  the  old  place?" 

"Yes.  Just  the  same,"  Barbara  said.  "He  married 
our  Sarah,  you  know — was  that  before  you  went  away? 
Of  course  not,"  and  added  for  my  enlightenment, 
"Sarah  Gibbs  was  father's  housekeeper  for  years.  She 
brought  me  up." 

We  drove  into  the  big,  dimly  lighted  building ;  there 
came  to  us  from  its  corner  office  what  might  have  been 
described  as  a  wide  man,  not  especially  imposing  in 
breadth,  but  with  a  sort  of  loose-jointed  effectiveness 
to  his  movements,  and  a  pair  of  roving,  yellowish- 
hazel  eyes  in  his  broad,  good-humored  face,  mighty 
observing  I'd  say,  in  spite  of  the  lazy  roll  of  his  glance. 

"Been  stepping  on  tacks,  Mister?"  he  hailed,  having 
looked  at  the  tires  before  he  took  stock  of  the  human 
freight. 


SANTA  YSOBEL  105 

"Hello,  Bill,"  Worth  was  singing  out.  "Give  me 
another  machine — or  get  our  spare  filled  and  on — 
whichever's  quickest.  I  want  to  make  it  to  the  house 
as  soon  as  I  can." 

"Lord,  boy!"  The  wide  man  began  wiping  a  big 
paw  before  offering  it.  "I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

They  shook  hands.  Worth  repeated  his  request, 
but  the  garage  man  was  already  unbuckling  the  spare, 
going  to  the  work  with  a  brisk  efficiency  that  contra 
dicted  his  appearance. 

Barbara  sitting  quietly  beside  me,  we  heard  them 
talking  at  the  back  of  the  machine,  as  the  jack  quickly 
lifted  us  and  Worth  went  to  it  with  Capehart  to  unbolt 
the  rim;  a  low-toned  steady  stream  from  the  wide 
man,  punctuated  now  and  then  by  a  word  from  Worth. 

"Yeh,"  Capehart  grunted,  prying  off  the  tire. 
"Heard  it  m'self  'bout  noon — or  a  little  after.  Yeh, 
Ward's  Undertaking  Parlors." 

"Undertaking  parlors!"  Worth  echoed.  Capehart, 
hammering  on  the  spare,  agreed. 

"Nobody  in  town  that  knowed  what  to  do  about 
it ;  so  the  coroner  took  a-holt,  I  guess,  and  kinda  fixed 
it  to  suit  hisself.  Did  you  phone  ahead  to  see  how 
things  was  out  to  the  house?" 

"Tried  to,"  Worth  said.  "The  operator  couldn't 
raise  it." 

"Course  not."  Capehart  was  coupling  on  the  air. 
"Your  chink's  off  every  Sunday — has  the  whole  day — 
and  the  Devil  only  could  guess  where  a  Chinaman'd 
go  when  he  ain't  working.  Eddie  Hughes  ought  to 
be  on  the  job  out  there — but  would  he?" 

"Father  still  kept  Eddie?" 

"Yeh."     The  click  of  the  jack  and  the  car  was 


106    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

lowering.  "Eddie's  lasted  longer  than  I  looked  to  see 
him.  Due  to  be  fired  any  time  this  past  year.  Been 
chasing  over  'crost  the  tracks.  Got  him  a  girl  there, 
one  of  these  cannery  girls.  Well,  she's  sort  of  mar 
ried,  I  guess,  but  that  don't  stop  Eddie.  'F  I  see 
him,  I'll  tell  him  you  want  him." 

They  came  to  the  front  of  the  machine;  Worth 
thrust  his  hand  in  his  pocket.  Capehart  checked  him 
with, 

"Let  it  go  on  the  bill."  Then,  as  Worth  swung 
into  his  seat,  Barbara  bent  forward  from  behind  my 
shoulder,  the  careless  yellowish  eyes  that  saw  every 
thing  got  a  fair  view  of  her,  and  with  a  sort  of  sub 
dued  crow,  "Look  who's  here!"  Capehart  took  hold 
of  the  upright  to  lean  his  square  form  in  and  say 
earnestly,  "While  you're  in  Santa  Ysobel,  don't  for 
get  that  we  got  a  spare  room  at  our  house." 

"Next  time,"  Barbara  raised  her  voice  to  top  the 
hum  of  the  engine.  "I'm  only  here  for  over  night, 
now,  and  I'm  going  down  to  Mrs.  Thornhill's." 

We  were  out  in  the  street  once  more,  leaving  the 
cannery  district  on  our  right,  tucked  away  to  itself 
across  the  railroad  tracks,  running  on  Main  Street  to 
City  Hall  Square,  where  we  struck  into  Broad,  fol 
lowed  it  out  past  the  churches  and  to  that  length  of 
it  that  held  the  fine  homes  in  their  beautiful  grounds, 
getting  close  at  last  to  where  town  melts  again  into 
orchards.  The  road  between  its  rows  of  fernlike  pep 
per  trees  was  a  wet  gleam  before  us,  all  black  and 
silver;  the  arc  lights  made  big  misty  blurs  without 
much  illumination  as  we  came  to  the  Thornhill  place. 
Worth  got  down  and,  though  she  told  him  he  needn't 
bother,  took  her  in  to  the  gate.  For  a  minute  I 


SANTA  YSOBEL  107 

\vaited,  getting  the  bulk  of  the  big  frame  house  back 
among  the  trees,  with  a  single  light  twinkling  from  an 
upper  story  window;  then  Worth  flung  into  the  car 
and  we  speeded  on,  skirting  a  long  frontage  of  lawns, 
beautifully  kept,  pearly  with  the  fog,  set  off  with 
artfully  grouped  shrubbery  and  winding  walks.  There 
was  no  barrier  but  a  low  stone  coping;  the  drive  to 
the  Gilbert  place  went  in  on  the  side  farthest  from  the 
Thornhill's.  We  ran  in  under  a  carriage  porch.  The 
house  was  black. 

"See  if  I  can  raise  anybody,"  said  Worth  as  he 
jumped  to  the  ground.  "Let  you  in,  and  then  I'll  run 
the  roadster  around  to  the  garage." 

But  the  house  was  so  tightly  locked  up  that  he  had 
finally  to  break  in  through  a  pantry  window.  I  was 
out  in  front  when  he  made  it,  and  saw  the  lights  begin 
to  flash  up,  the  porch  lamp  flooding  me  with  a  sud 
den  glare  before  he  threw  the  door  open. 

"Cold  as  a  vault  in  here." 

He  twisted  his  broad  shoulders  in  a  shudder,  and 
I  looked  about  me.  It  was  a  big  entrance  hall,  with 
a  wide  stairway.  There  on  the  hat  tree  hung  a  man's 
light  overcoat,  a  gray  fedora  hat ;  a  stick  leaned  below. 
When  the  master  of  the  house  went  out  of  it  this  time, 
he  hadn't  needed  these.  Abruptly  Worth  turned  and 
led  the  way  into  what  I  knew  was  the  living  room, 
with  a  big  open  fireplace  in  it. 

"Make  yourself  as  comfortable  as  you  can,  Jerry. 
I'll  get  a  blaze  here  in  two  shakes.  I  suppose  you're 
hungry  as  a  wolf — I  am.  This  is  a  hell  of  a  place  I've 
brought  you  into." 

"Forget  it,"  I  returned.  "I  can  look  after  myself. 
I'm  used  to  rustling.  Let  me  make  that  fire." 


io8    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"All  right."  He  gave  up  his  place  on  the  hearth 
to  me,  straightened  himself  and  stood  a  minute,  say 
ing,  "I'll  raid  the  kitchen.  Chung's  sure  to  have  plenty 
of  food  cooked.  He  may  not  be  back  here  before 
midnight." 

"Midnight?"  I  echoed.     "Is  that  usual?" 

"Used  to  be.  Chung's  been  with  father  a  long  time. 
Good  chink.  Always  given  his  whole  Sunday,  and  if 
he  was  on  hand  to  get  Monday's  breakfast — no  ques 
tions." 

"Left  last  night,  you  think?" 

Worth  shot  me  a  glance  of  understanding. 

"Sometimes  he  would — after  cleaning  up  from  din 
ner.  But  he  wouldn't  have  heard  the  shot,  if  that's 
what  you're  driving  at." 

He  left  me,  going  out  through  the  hall.  My  fire 
burned.  I  thawed  out  the  kinks  the  long,  chill  ride 
had  put  in  me.  Then  Worth  hailed;  I  went  out  and 
found  him  with  a  coffee-pot  boiling  on  the  gas  range, 
a  loaf  and  a  cold  roast  set  out.  He  had  sand,  that 
boy;  in  this  wretched  home-coming,  his  manner  was 
neither  stricken  nor  defiant.  He  seemed  only  a  little 
graver  than  usual  as  he  waited  on  me,  hunting  up 
stuff  in  places  he  knew  of  to  put  some  variety  into 
our  supper. 

Where  I  sat  I  faced  a  back  window,  and  my  eye 
was  caught  by  the  appearance  of  a  strange  light,  quite 
a  little  distance  from  the  house,  apparently  in  another 
building,  but  showing  as  a  vague  glow  on  the  fog. 

"What's  down  there?"  I  asked.  Worth  answered 
without  taking  the  trouble  to  lean  forward  and  look, 

"The  garage — and  the  study." 

"Huh?    The   study's   separate   from   the   house?" 


SANTA  YSOBEL  109 

I  had  been  thinking  of  the  suicide  as  a  thing  of  this 
dwelling,  an  affair  in  some  room  within  its  walls. 
Of  course  Chung  would  not  hear  the  shot.  "Who's 
down  there?" 

"Eddie  Hughes  has  a  room  off  the  garage." 

"He's  in  it  now." 

"How  do  you  know?"  he  asked  quickly. 

"There's  a  light — or  there  was.     It's  gone  now." 

"That  wouldn't  have  been  Eddie,"  Worth  said. 
"His  room's  on  the  other  side,  toward  the  back  street. 
What  you  saw  was  the  light  from  these  windows  shin 
ing  on  the  fog.  Makes  queer  effects  sometimes." 

I  knew  that  wasn't  it,  but  I  didn't  argue  with  him, 
only  remarked, 

"I'd  like  to  have  a  look  at  that  place,  Worth,  if 
you  don't  mind." 


CHAPTER  X 

A  SHADOW  IN  THE  FOG 

AGAIN  I  saw  that  glow  from  the  Gilbert  garage, 
hanging  on  the  fog;  a  luminosity  of  the  fog; 
saw  it  disappear  as  the  mist  deepened  and  shrouded 
it.  But  Worth  was  answering  me,  and  somehow  his 
words  seemed  forced; 

"Sit  tight  a  minute,  Jerry.  Have  another  cup  of 
coffee  while  I  telephone,  then  I'll  put  the  roadster  in 
and  open  up  down  there.  I'll  call  you — or  you  can 
see  my  lights." 

He  left  me.  I  heard  him  at  the  instrument  in  the 
hall  get  his  number,  talk  to  some  one  in  a  low  voice, 
and  then  go  out  the  front  door;  next  thing  was  the 
sound  of  the  motor,  the  glare  of  its  lamps  as  it 
rounded  into  the  driveway  and  started  down  back, 
illuminating  everything.  In  the  general  glare  thrown 
on  the  fog,  the  fainter  light  was  invisible,  but  across 
a  plot  of  kitchen  garden  I  saw  where  it  had  been;  a 
square,  squat  building  of  concrete,  flat  roofed,  vining 
plants  in  boxes  drooping  over  its  cornice;  the  typical 
garage  of  such  an  establishment,  but  nearly  double 
the  usual  size.  The  light  had  come  from  there,  but 
how?  In  the  short  time  that  the  lamps  of  the  machine 
were  showing  it  up  to  me,  there  seemed  no  windows 
on  this  side;  only  the  double  doors  for  the  car's  en 
trance—closed  now — and  a  single  door  which  was 

no 


A  SHADOW  IN  THE  FOG  in 

crossed  by  two  heavy,  barricading  planks  nailed  in  the 
form  of  a  great  X. 

Worth  ran  the  machine  close  up  against  the  doors, 
jumped  down,  and  I  could  see  his  tall  form,  blurred 
by  the  mist,  moving  about  to  slide  them  open.  The 
lamps  of  the  roadster  made  little  showing  now  as  he 
rolled  it  in.  Then  these  were  switched  off  and  every 
thing  down  there  was  dark  as  a  pocket.  For  a  time 
I  sat  and  waited  for  him  to  light  up  and  call  me,  then 
started  down.  The  fog  was  making  that  kind  of 
dimness  which  has  a  curious,  illusory  character.  I 
suppose  I  had  gone  half  the  distance  of  the  garden 
walk,  when,  thrown  up  startlingly  on  the  obscurity, 
I  saw  a  square  of  white,  and  across  that  shining 
screen,  moved  the  silhouette  of  a  human  head.  The 
whole  thing  danced  before  my  eyes  for  a  bare  second, 
then  blackness. 

With  Cummings'  queer  hints  in  my  mind,  I  started 
running  across  the  garden  toward  it.  About  the  first 
thing  I  did  was  to  step  into  a  cold  frame,  plunging 
my  foot  through  the  glass,  all  but  going  to  my  knees 
in  it;  and  when  I  got  up,  swearing,  I  was  turned 
around,  ran  into  bushes,  tripped  over  obstructions, 
and  traveled,  I  think,  in  a  circle. 

Then  I  began  to  go  more  cautiously.  No  use  get 
ting  excited.  That  was  only  Worth  I  had  seen.  And 
still  I  was  unwilling  to  call,  ask  him  to  show  a  light. 
I  groped  along  until  my  outstretched  fingers  came 
across  the  corner  of  a  building,  rough,  stonelike — the 
concrete  garage  and  study.  I  felt  along,  seeing  a  bit 
now,  and  was  soon  passing  my  hands  over  the  bar 
ricading  planks  of  that  door. 

I  might  have  lit  a  match,  but  I  preferred  to  find 


H2    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

out  what  I  could  by  feeling  around,  and  that  cau 
tiously.  I  discovered  that  the  door  had  been  broken 
in,  the  top  panels  shattered  to  kindling  wood,  the 
force  of  the  assault  having  burst  a  hinge,  so  that  the 
whole  thing  sagged  drunkenly  behind  the  heavy  planks 
that  propped  it,  while  a  strong  bolt,  quite  useless,  was 
still  clamped  into  a  socket  which  had  been  torn,  screws 
and  all,  from  the  inside  casing. 

Sliding  my  hands  over  the  broken  top  panel  I 
found  that  it  had  been  covered  on  its  inner  side  by  a 
piece  of  canvas;  the  screen  on  which  that  shadow  had 
been  thrown — from  within  the  room.  There  was  no 
light  there  now;  there  was  no  sound  of  motion  within. 
The  drip  of  the  fog  from  the  eaves  was  the  only 
break  in  the  stillness. 

"Worth?"  I  shouted,  at  last,  and  he  answered  me 
instantly,  hallooing  from  behind  me,  and  to  one  side 
of  the  house.  I  could  hear  him  running  and  when  he 
spoke  it  was  close  to  my  shoulder. 

"Where  are  you,  Jerry?" 

"Where  are  you,"  I  countered.  "Or  rather,  where 
have  you  been?" 

"Getting  a  bar  to  pry  off  these  boards." 

"A  bar?"  I  echoed  stupidly. 

"A  crowbar  from  the  shed.  These  planks  will  have 
to  come  off  to  let  us  in." 

"The  devil  you  say !"  I  was  exasperated.  "There's 
some  one  in  here  now — or  was  a  minute  back.  Show 
me  the  other  way  in." 

I  heard  the  ring  of  the  steel  bar  as  its  end  hit  the 
hard  graveled  path. 

"Some  one  in  there?     Jerry,  you're  seeing  things." 


A  SHADOW  IN  THE  FOG  113 

"Sure  I  am,"  I  agreed  drily.  "But  you  get  me  to 
that  other  door  quick!" 

"The  only  other  door  is  locked.  I  tried  it  from  the 
garage.  You're  dreaming." 

For  reply,  I  ran  up  to  the  door  and  thrust  my  fist 
through  the  canvas,  ripping  it  away  from  its  clumsy 
tacking. 

"Who's  in  there?"  I  cried.     "Answer  me!" 

Dead  silence;  then  a  click  as  Worth  snapped  on  a 
flood  of  light  from  his  pocket  torch,  saying  tolerantly, 
tiredJy, 

"I  told  you  there  was  no  one.     There  couldn't  be." 

"I  tell  you,  Worth,  there  was.  I  saw  the  shadow 
on  the  square  of  that  canvas.  Give  me  the  torch." 

I  pushed  the  flashlight  through  the  opening  and 
played  the  light  cone  about  the  room  in  a  quick  survey ; 
then  brought  the  circle  of  white  glow  to  rest  upon  one 
of  the  side  walls;  and  my  hand  went  down  and  back 
to  grip  fingers  about  the  butt  of  my  revolver.  There 
was,  as  Worth  had  said,  but  one  other  door  to  this 
room;  but  more,  there  was  apparently  no  other  exit; 
no  windows,  no  breaks  in  the  walls.  My  circle  of  light 
was  on  this  second  door;  and  the  very  heart  of  that 
circle  was  a  heavy  steel  bolt  on  the  door,  the  bar  of 
which  was  firmly  shot  into  the  socket  on  the  frame. 
The  only  exit  from  that  room,  other  than  the  door 
through  which  I  now  leaned  with  pistol  raised,  was 
locked — bolted  from  the  inside ! 

Worth  was  crowding  his  big  frame  into  the  opening 
beside  me. 

"Keep  back,"  I  growled.  "Some  one's  inside,"  and 
I  sent  the  light  shaft  into  corners  to  drive  out  the 
shadows,  to  cut  in  under  the  desk  and  chairs.  Worth's 


114    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

reply  was  a  laugh,  and  his  arm  went  by  me  to  reach 
inside  the  door.  Then,  as  his  fingers  found  the  button, 
a  light  sprang  out  from  a  lamp  upon  the  center  desk. 

"You're  letting  your  nerves  play  the  deuce  with  you, 
Jerry,"  he  said  lightly.  "Make  way  for  my  crowbar 
and  we'll  get  in  out  of  the  wet." 

I  made  no  answer,  but  for  a  long  moment  more  I 
searched  that  room  with  my  eyes ;  but  it  was  the  kind 
you  see  all  over  at  a  glance.  Big,  square,  plain,  it 
hadn't  a  window  in  it;  the  walls,  lined  with  book 
shelves,  floor  to  ceiling;  a  fireplace;  a  library  table 
with  drawers;  a  few  chairs.  No  chance  for  a  hide 
out.  I  glanced  at  the  ceiling  and  confirmed  the  evi 
dence  of  my  eyes.  There  was  a  skylight,  and  through 
it  had  come  that  curious  glow  that  first  attracted  my 
attention  to  the  place. 

Then  I  gave  Worth  room  to  wield  his  tools  on  the 
barred  door,  while  I  ran  quickly  back  to  the  house, 
into  the  kitchen,  and  plumped  down  in  the  chair  where 
I  had  sat  before.  The  light  showed  on  the  fog, 
brightened  and  dimmed  as  the  mist  drifted  past. 
There  was  no  possibility  of  a  mistake:  some  one  had 
been  in  the  study,  had  turned  on  the  table  lamp,  had 
projected  his  shadow  against  the  patched  panel  of  the 
door,  and  had  somehow  left  the  room,  one  door  bolted, 
the  only  other  exit  barred  and  nailed. 

I  went  back  and  rejoined  Worth  who  was  standing 
where  a  brownish  stain  on  the  rug  marked  a  spot  a 
little  nearer  the  corner  of  the  table  than  it  was  to  the 
outer  door.  A  curious  place  for  a  suicide  to  fall. 
Behind  the  table  was  the  library  chair  in  which  Thomas 
Gilbert  worked  when  at  his  desk;  beside  it  a  small 
cabinet  with  a  humidor  on  its  top  and  the  open  door 


A  SHADOW  IN  THE  FOG  115 

below  revealing  several  decanters  and  bottles,  whisky 
and  wine  glasses,  a  tray;  between  the  desk  and  the 
fireplace  were  two  other  chairs,  large  and  comfortable; 
but  in  front  of  the  table — between  it  and  the  door — 
was  barren  floor. 

It  is  a  fact  that  most  men  who  shoot  themselves  do 
so  while  sitting;  some  lying  in  a  bed;  few  standing. 
The  psychology  of  this  I  must  leave  to  others,  but 
experience  has  taught  me  to  question  the  suicide  of 
one  who  has  seemingly  placed  the  muzzle  of  a  revolver 
against  him  while  on  his  feet.  Thomas  Gilbert  had 
stood;  had  chosen  to  take  his  life  as  he  was  walking 
from  door  to  desk,  or  from  desk  to  door. 

"Worth,"  I  said.  "There  was  somebody  in  here 
just  now." 

"Couldn't  have  been,  Jerry,"  he  answered  absently; 
then  added,  his  eyes  on  that  stain,  "I  never  could 
calculate  what  my  father  would  do.  But  when  I 
talked  to  him  last  night,  right  here  in  this  room,  he 
didn't  seem  to  me  a  man  ready  to  take  his  own  life." 

"You  quarreled?" 

"We  always  quarreled,  whenever  we  met." 

"But  this  quarrel  was  more  bitter  than  usual?" 

"The  last  quarrel  would  seem  the  bitterest,  wouldn't 
it,  Jerry?"  he  asked.  Then,  after  a  moment,  "Poor 
Jim  Edwards!" 

I  caught  my  tongue  to  hold  back  the  question. 
Worth  went  on, 

"When  I  phoned  him  just  now,  he  hadn't  heard  a 
word  about  it.  Seemed  terribly  upset." 

"Hadn't  heard?"  I  echoed.     "How  was  that?" 

"You  know  we  saw  him  at  Tait's  last  night.  He 
took  the  Pacheco  Pass  road  from  San  Francisco; 


u6   THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

drove  straight  to  his  ranch  without  hitting  Santa 
Ysobel." 

I  wanted  another  look  at  that  man  Edwards.  I 
was  to  have  it.  Worth  went  on  absently, 

"He'll  be  along  presently  to  stay  here  while  I'm 
away  Monday.  Told  me  it  would  be  the  first  time 
he'd  put  foot  in  the  house  for  four  years.  As  boys 
up  in  Sonoma  county,  he  and  father  always  disagreed, 
but  sometime  these  last  years  there  was  a  big  split 
over  something.  They  were  barely  on  speaking  terms 
— and  good  old  Jim  took  my  news  harder  than 
as  though  I'd  been  telling  him  the  death  of  a  near 
friend." 

"Works  like  that  with  us  humans,"  I  nodded.  "Let 
some  one  die  that  you've  disagreed  with,  and  you 
remember  every  row  you  ever  had  with  them ;  remem 
ber  it  and  regret  it — which  is  foolish." 

"Which  is  foolish,"  Worth  repeated,  and  seemed 
for  the  first  time  able  to  get  away  from  the  spot  at 
which  he  had  stopped. 

He  went  over  to  the  empty,  fireless  hearth  and  stood 
there,  his  back  to  the  room,  elbows  on  the  mantel 
propping  his  head,  face  bent,  oblivious  to  anything  that 
I  might  do.  It  oughtn't  to  be  hard  to  find  the  way 
this  place  could  be  entered  and  left  by  a  man  solid 
enough  to  cast  a  shadow,  with  quick  fingers  to  snap 
the  light  on  and  off.  But  when  I  made  a  painstaking 
examination  of  a  corner  grate  with  a  flue  too  small 
for  anything  but  a  chimney  swallow  to  go  up  and 
down,  a  ceiling  solidly  beamed  and  paneled,  the  glass 
that  formed  the  skylight  set  in  firmly  as  part  of  the 
roof,  when  I'd  turned  up  rugs  and  inspected  an  un 
broken  floor,  even  tried  the  corners  of  book  cases  to 


A  SHADOW  IN  THE  FOG  117 

see  if  they  masked  a  false  entrance,  I  owned  myself, 
for  the  moment,  beaten  there. 

"Give  me  your  torch — or  go  with  me,  Worth,"  I 
said.  "I'd  like  to  take  a  scoot  around  outside." 

He  didn't  speak,  only  indicated  the  flashlight  by  a 
motion,  where  it  lay  on  the  shelf  beside  his  hand.  I 
took  it,  unbolted  the  door,  and  stepped  into  the  garage. 

Everything  all  right  here.  My  roadster;  a  much 
handsomer  small  machine  beyond  it;  a  bench,  portable 
forge  and  drill  made  a  repair  shop  of  one  corner,  and 
as  my  light  flashed  over  these,  I  checked  and  stared. 
Why  had  Worth  gone  to  the  shed  hunting  a  crowbar 
to  open  the  door?  Here  were  tools  that  would  have 
served  as  well.  I  put  from  me  the  hateful  thought, 
and  damned  Cummings  and  his  suspicions.  The 
shadow  didn't  have  to  be  Worth.  Certainly  he  had 
not  first  lit  that  lamp,  for  I  had  seen  it  from  the  kitchen 
with  him  beside  me.  Some  one  other  than  Worth 
had  been  in  there  when  Worth  put  up  the  roadster. 
I'd  find  the  man  it  really  was.  But  even  as  I  crossed 
to  Eddie  Hughes's  door,  something  at  the  back  of  my 
head  was  saying  to  me  that  Worth  could  have  been  in 
that  room — that  there  was  time  for  it  to  be,  if  he  had 
taken  the  crowbar  from  the  garage  and  not  from  the 
shed  as  he  said  he  did. 

At  this  I  took  myself  in  hand.  The  lie  would  have 
been  so  clumsy  a  one  that  there  was  no  way  but  to 
accept  this  statement  for  the  truth ;  and  some  one  else 
had  made  that  shadow  on  the  canvas. 

I  tried  the  chauffeur's  door  and  found  it  locked ; 
called,  shook  it,  and  had  set  my  shoulder  against  it  to 
burst  it  in,  when  the  rolling  door  on  the  street  si«Je 
moved  a  little,  and  a  voice  said. 


Ii8    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"H-y-ah!     What  you  doin'  there?" 

I  turned  and  flashed  my  light  on  the  six-inch  crack 
of  the  sliding  door.  It  gave  me  a  strip  of  man,  a 
long  drab  face  at  top,  solid,  meaty  looking,  yet  some 
how  slightly  cadaverous,  a  half  shut  eye,  a  crooked 
mouth — if  I'd  met  that  mug  in  San  Francisco,  I'd  have 
labeled  it  "tough,"  and  located  it  South  of  Market 
Street. 

Slowly,  it  seemed  rather  reluctantly,  Eddie  Hughes 
worked  the  six-inch  crack  wider  by  working  himself 
through  it. 

"What  the  hell  do  you  want  in  my  room  for?"  he 
demanded.  The  form  of  the  words  was  truculent,  but 
the  words  themselves  slid  in  a  sort  of  spiritless  fashion 
from  the  corner  of  that  crooked  mouth  of  his,  and  he 
added  in  the  next  breath,  "I'll  open  up  for  you,  when 
I've  lit  the  blinks." 

There  was  a  central  lamp  that  made  the  whole  place 
as  bright  as  day.  Eddie  fumbled  a  key  out  of  his 
pocket,  threw  the  door  of  his  room  open,  and  stepped 
back  to  let  me  pass  him. 

"Capehart  tells  me  Worth's  here,"  he  said  as  we 
went  in. 

"When?"  I  gave  him  a  sharp  look.  He  seemed 
not  to  notice  it. 

"Just  now.     I  came  straight  from  there." 

He  came  straight  from  there?  Did  he  supply  an 
alibi  so  neatly  because  of  that  shadowy  head  on  the 
door  panel  ?  For  a  long  minute  we  each  took  measure 
of  the  other,  but  Eddie's  nerves  were  less  reliable  than 
mine ;  he  spoke  first. 

"Well?"  he  grunted,  scarcely  above  his  breath. 
And  when  I  continued  to  stare  silently  at  him,  he 


A  SHADOW  IN  THE  FOG  119 

writhed  a  shoulder  with,  "What's  doing?  What 
d'yuh  want  of  me?" 

Still  silently,  I  pulled  out  with  my  thumb  through 
the  armhole  of  my  vest  the  police  badge  pinned  to  the 
suspender.  His  ill-colored  face  went  a  shade  nearer 
the  yellow  white  of  tallow. 

"What  for?"  he  asked  huskily.  "You  haven't  got 
nothin'  on  me.  It  was  suicide — cor'ner's  jury  says 
so.  Lord !  It  has  to  be,  him  layin'  there,  all  hunched 
up  on  the  floor,  his  gun  so  tight  in  his  mitt  that  they 
had  to  pry  the  fingers  off  it!" 

"So  you  found  the  body?" 

He  nodded  and  gulped. 

"I  told  all  I  knowed  at  the  inquest,"  he  said  dog 
gedly. 

"Tell  it  again,"  I  commanded. 

Standing  there,  working  his  hands  together  as 
though  he  held  some  small,  accustomed  tool  that  he 
was  turning,  shifting  from  foot  to  foot,  with  long 
breaks  in  his  speech,  the  chauffeur  finally  put  me  into 
possession  of  what  he  knew — or  what  he  wished  me 
to  know.  He  had  been  out  all  night.  That  was  usual 
with  him  Saturdays.  Where  ?  Over  around  the  can 
neries.  Had  friends  that  lived  there.  He  got  into 
this  place  about  dawn,  and  went  straight  to  bed. 

"Hold  on,  Hughes,"  I  stopped  him  there.  "You 
never  went  to  bed — that  night,  or  any  other  night — 
until  you'd  had  a  jolt  from  the  bottle  inside." 

He  gave  me  a  surly,  half  frightened  glance,  then 
said  quickly, 

"Not  a  chance.  Bolts  on  the  doors,  locks  every 
where  ;  all  tight  as  a  jail.  Take  it  from  me,  he  wasn't 
the  kind  you  want  to  have  a  run-in  with — any  time. 


120    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

Always  just  as  cool  as  ice  himself;  try  to  make  you 
believe  he  could  tell  what  you  were  up  to,  clear  across 
town.  Hold  it  over  you  as  if  he  was  God  almighty 
that  stuck  folks  together  and  set  'em  walkin'  around 
and  thinkin'  things." 

He  broke  off  and  looked  over  his  shoulder  in  the 
direction  of  the  study.  The  walls  were  thick — con 
crete  ;  the  door  heavy.  No  sound  of  Worth's  moving 
in  there  could  be  heard  in  this  room.  Apparently  it 
was  the  old  terror  of  his  employer,  or  the  new  terror 
of  the  employer's  death,  that  spoke  when  he  said, 

"I  got  up  this  morning  late  with  a  throat  like  the 
back  of  a  chimney.  Lord!  I  never  wanted  a  drink 
so  bad  in  my  life — had  to  have  one.  The  chink  leaves 
my  breakfast  for  me  Sundays;  but  I  knew  I  couldn't 
eat  till  I'd  had  one.  So  I— so  I—" 

It  was  as  though  some  recollection  fairly  choked  off 
his  voice.  I  finished  for  him. 

"So  you  went  in  there — "  I  pointed  at  the  study 
door,  "and  found  the  body." 

"Naw !  How  the  hell  could  I  ?  I  told  you — locked. 
I  crawled  up  on  the  roof,  though;  huntin'  a  way  in, 
and  I  looked  through  the  skylight.  There  he  was. 
On  the  floor.  His  eyes  weren't  open  much,  but  they 
was  watchin'  me — sort  of  sneerin'.  I  come  down  off 
that  roof  like  a  bat  outa  hell,  and  scuttled  over  to  Van- 
deman's  where  his  chink  was  on  the  porch,  I  bellerin' 
at  him.  I  telephoned  from  there.  For  the  bulls ;  and 
the  cor'ner;  and  everybody.  Gawd!  I  was  all  in." 

I  caught  one  point  in  the  tale. 

"So  the  way  into  the  study  is  through  the  skylight, 
Hughes?"  and  he  shook  his  head  vaguely,  fumbling 
his  lips  with  a  trembling  hand  as  he  replied, 


A  SHADOW  IN  THE  FOG  121 

"Honest  to  God,  Cap'n,  I  don't  know.  I  never 
tried.  I  gave  just  one  look  through  it,  and — "  He 
broke  off  with  a  shudder. 

"Get  a  ladder,"  I  commanded.  "I  want  to  see  that 
skylight." 

While  he  was  gone  on  his  errand  to  the  shed,  I  in 
vestigated  the  outer  walls  of  the  study  with  the  torch, 
hunting  some  break  in  their  solidity.  They  were  con 
crete;  a  hair-crack  would  have  been  visible  in  the 
electric  glow ;  there  was  no  break.  Then,  as  he  placed 
the  ladder  against  the  coping,  I  climbed  to  the  roof 
and  stepped  across  its  firmness  to  the  skylight.  I 
looked  down. 

Worth,  kneeling  on  the  hearth,  was  laying  a  fire  in 
the  corner  grate.  As  he  did  not  glance  up,  I  knew  he 
had  not  heard  me.  Evidently  the  study  had  been  built 
to  resist  the  disturbance  of  sound  from  without. 
That  meant  that  the  report  of  the  revolver  inside  had 
not  been  heard  by  any  one  outside  the  walls. 

Directly  below  me  was  the  library  table  and  upon 
its  top  a  blue  desk  blotter;  a  silver  filagreed  inkstand 
stood  open ;  penholders,  pencils,  paper  knife  were  on  a 
tray  beside  it,  one  pen  lying  separate  from  the  others 
with  a  ruler,  upon  the  blotting  pad ;  books  and  a  maga 
zine  neatly  in  a  pile.  The  walls,  as  I  circled  them  with 
my  eyes,  were  book-lined  everywhere  except  for  the 
grate  and  the  two  doors. 

Then  I  inspected  the  skylight,  frame  and  glass,  feel 
ing  it  over  with  my  hands.  There  was  no  entrance 
here.  Even  should  a  pane  of  glass  be  removable — 
all  seemingly  solid  and  tight — the  frame  between  and 
the  sash  were  of  steel,  and  the  panes  were  too  small 
for  the  passage  of  a  man.  I  crept  back  to  the  ladder 


122    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

as  Worth  was  striking  a  match  to  light  the  pitch-pine 
kindling. 

"What  about  this  Vandeman  chink?"  I  asked  of 
Hughes  as  I  rejoined  him  at  the  foot  of  the  ladder. 
"Does  he  hang  around  here  much?" 

"Him  and  Chung  visit  back  and  forth  a  bit.  I  hear 
'em  talkin'  hy-lee  hy-lo  sometimes  when  I  go  by  the 
kitchen." 

"Take  me  over  there/'  I  said. 

The  fog  was  beginning  to  blow  away  in  threads ; 
moonlight  somewhere  back  of  it  made  a  queer,  gray, 
glimmering  world  around  us.  We  circled  the  garden 
by  the  path,  passing  a  sort  of  gardener's  tool  shed 
where  Hughes  left  the  ladder,  and  from  which  I  judged 
Worth  had  brought  the  bar  he  pried  the  door  planks 
off  with,  to  find  a  gap  in  a  hedge  between  this  place 
and  the  next. 

There  was  a  light  in  the  rear  of  the  house  over 
there,  and  a  well-trodden  path  leading  from  the  hedge 
gap  made  what  I  took  to  be  a  servants'  highway. 

Vandeman's  house  proved  to  be,  as  nearly  as  one 
could  see  it  in  the  darkness,  a  sprawling  bungalow, 
with  courts,  pergolas  and  terraces  bursting  out  on  all 
sides  of  it.  I  could  fairly  see  it  of  a  fine  afternoon, 
with  its  showy  master  sitting  on  one  of  the  showy 
porches,  serving  afternoon  tea  in  his  best  manner  to 
the  best  people  of  Santa  Ysobel.  Just  the  husband 
for  that  doll-faced  girl,  if  she  only  thought  so.  What 
could  she  have  done  with  a  young  outlaw  like  Worth  ? 

When  I  looked  at  the  Chinaman  in  charge  there,  I 
gave  up  my  idea  of  questioning  him.  Civilly  enough, 
with  a  precise  and  educated  usage  of  the  English  lan 
guage,  he  confirmed  what  Eddie  Hughes  had  already 


A  SHADOW  IN  THE  FOG  123 

told  me  about  the  telephoning  from  that  place  this 
morning;  and  I  went  no  further.  I  know  the  Chinese 
— if  anybody  not  Mongolian  can  say  they  know  the 
race — and  I  have  also  a  suitable  respect  for  the  value 
of  time.  A  week  of  steady  questioning  of  Vande- 
man's  yellow  man  would  have  brought  me  nowhere. 
He  was  that  kind  of  a  chink ;  grave,  respectful,  placid 
and  impervious. 

On  the  way  back  I  asked  Eddie  about  the  Thornhill 
servants  at  the  house  on  the  other  side  of  Gilbert's, 
and  found  they  kept  but  one,  "a  sort  of  old  lady," 
Eddie  called  her,  and  I  guessed  easily  at  the  decayed 
gentlewoman  kind  of  person.  It  seemed  that  Mrs. 
Thornhill  was  a  widow,  and  there  wasn't  much  money 
now  to  keep  up  the  handsome  place. 

I  left  Eddie  slipping  eel-like  through  the  big  doors, 
and  went  into  the  study  to  find  Worth  sitting  before 
the  blazing  hearth.  He  looked  up  as  I  entered  to 
remark  quietly, 

"Bobs  said  she'd  be  over  later,  and  I  told  her  to 
come  on  down  here." 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  MISSING  DIARY 

MY  experience  as  a  detective  has  convinced  me 
that  the  evident  is  usually  true ;  that  in  a  great 
majority  of  cases  crime  leaves  a  straight  trail,  and  am 
biguities  are  more  often  due  to  the  inability  of  the 
trailer  than  to  the  cunning  of  the  trailed.  Such 
reputation  as  I  have  established  is  due  to  acceptance  of 
and  earnest  adherence  to  the  obvious. 

In  this  affair  of  Thomas  Gilbert's  death,  everything 
so  far  pointed  one  way.  The  body  had  been  found 
in  a  bolted  room,  revolver  in  hand;  on  the  wall  over 
the  mantel  hung  the  empty  holster;  Worth  assured  me 
the  gun  was  kept  always  loaded;  and  there  might  be 
motive  enough  for  suicide  in  the  quarrel  last  night 
between  father  and  SOIL 

Because  of  that  flitting  shadow  I  had  seen,  I  knew 
this  place  was  not  impervious.  Some  one  person,  at 
least,  could  enter  and  leave  the  room  easily,  quickly, 
while  its  doors  were  locked.  But  that  might  be 
Hughes — or  even  Worth — with  some  reason  for  doing 
so  not  willingly  explained,  and  some  means  not  readily 
seen.  It  probably  had  nothing  to  do  with  Thomas 
Gilbert's  sudden  death,  could  not  offset  in  my  mind  the 
conviction  of  Thomas  Gilbert's  stiffened  fingers  about 
the  pistol's  butt.  That  I  made  a  second  thorough  in 
vestigation  of  the  study  interior  was  not  because  I 
questioned  the  manner  of  the  death. 

124 


THE  MISSING  DIARY  125 

I  began  taking  down  books  from  the  shelves  at 
regular  intervals,  sounding  the  thick  dead-wall,  in 
search  of  a  secreted  entrance.  I  came  on  a  row  of 
volumes  whose  red  morocco  backs  carried  nothing  but 
dates. 

"Account  books?"  I  asked. 

Worth  turned  his  head  to  look,  and  the  bleakest 
thing  that  could  be  called  a  smile  twisted  his  lips  a 
little,  as  he  said, 

"My  father's  diaries." 

"Quite  a  lot  of  them." 

"Yes.     He'd  kept  diaries  for  thirty  years." 

"But  he  seems  to  have  dropped  the  habit.  There  is 
no  1920  book." 

"Oh,  yes  there  is,"  very  definitely.  "He  never  gave 
up  setting  down  the  sins  of  his  family  and  neighbors 
while  his  eyes  had  sight  to  see  them,  and  his  hand  the 
cunning  to  write."  He  spoke  with  extraordinary 
bitterness,  finishing,  "He  would  have  had  it  on  the 
desk  there.  The  current  book  was  always  kept  con 
venient  to  his  hand." 

An  idea  occurred  to  me. 

"Worth,"  I  asked,  "did  you  see  that  1920  volume 
when  you  were  here  last  night?" 

He  looked  a  little  startled,  and  I  prompted, 

"Were  you  too  excited  to  have  noticed  a  detail  like 
that?" 

"I  wasn't  excited ;  not  in  the  sense  of  being  con 
fused,"  he  spoke  slowly.  "The  book  was  there;  he'd 
been  writing  in  it.  I  remember  looking  at  it  and  think 
ing  that  as  soon  as  I  was  gone,  he'd  sit  down  in  his 
chair  and  put  every  damn'  word  of  our  row  into  it. 
That  was  his  way.  The  seamy  side  of  Santa  Ysobel 


126    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

life's  recorded  in  those  books.  I  always  understood 
they  amounted  to  a  pack  of  neighborhood  dynamite." 

"Got  to  find  that  last  book,"  I  said. 

He  nodded  listlessly.  I  went  to  it,  giving  that  room 
such  a  searching  as  would  have  turned  out  a  bent  pin, 
had  one  been  mislaid  in  it.  I  even  took  down  from  the 
shelves  books  of  similar  size  to  see  if  the  lost  volume 
had  been  slipped  into  a  camouflaging  cover — all  to  no 
good.  It  wasn't  there.  And  when  I  had  finished  I 
was  positive  of  two  things;  the  study  had  no  other 
entrance  than  the  apparent  ones,  and  the  diary  of  1920 
had  been  removed  from  the  room  since  Worth  saw  it 
there  the  night  before.  I  reached  for  one  of  the  other 
volumes.  Worth  spoke  again  in  a  sort  of  dragging 
voice, 

"What  do  you  want  to  look  at  them  for,  Jerry?" 

"It's  not  idle  curiosity,"  I  told  him,  a  bit  pricked. 

"I  know  it's  not  that."  The  old,  affectionate  tone 
went  right  to  my  heart.  "But  if  you're  thinking  you'll 
find  in  them  any  explanation  of  my  father's  taking  his 
own  life,  I'm  here  to  tell  you  you're  mistaken.  Plenty 
there,  no  doubt,  to  have  driven  a  tender  hearted  man 
off  the  earth.  .  .  .  He  was  different."  Eyeing  the 
book  in  my  hand,  the  boy  blurted  with  sudden  heat, 
"Those  damn'  diaries  have  been  wife  and  child  and 
meat  and  drink  to  him.  They  were  his  reason  for 
living — not  dying!" 

"Start  me  right  in  regard  to  your  father,  Worth," 
I  urged  anxiously.  "It's  important." 

The  boy  gave  me  his  shoulder  and  continued  to 
stare  down  into  the  fire,  as  he  said  at  last,  slowly, 

"I  would  rather  leave  him  alone,  Jerry." 

I  knew  it  would  be  useless  to  insist.     Never  then  or 


THE  MISSING  DIARY  127 

thereafter  did  I  hear  him  say  more  of  his  father's 
character.  At  that,  he  could  hardly  have  told  more 
in  an  hour's  talk. 

At  random,  I  took  the  volume  that  covered  the  year 
in  which,  as  I  remembered,  Thomas  Gilbert's  wife  had 
secured  her  divorce  from  him.  Neatly  and  carefully 
written  in  a  script  as  readable  as  type,  the  books,  if  I 
am  a  judge,  had  literary  style.  They  were  much  more 
than  mere  diaries.  True,  each  entry  began  with  a  note 
of  the  day's  weather,  and  certain  small  records  of  the 
writer's  personal  affairs ;  but  these  went  oddly  enough 
with  what  followed ;  a  biting  analysis  of  the  inner  life, 
the  estimated  intentions  and  emotions,  of  the  beings 
nearest  to  him.  It  was  inhuman  stuff.  But  Worth 
was  right;  there  was  no  soil  for  suicide  in  this  matter 
written  by  a  hand  guided  by  a  harsh,  censorious  mind ; 
too  much  egotism  here  to  willingly  give  over  the  role 
of  conscience  for  his  friends.  Friends  ? — could  a  man 
have  friends  who  regarded  humanity  through  such  un 
kindly,  wide  open,  all-seeing  eyes? 

Worth,  seated  across  from  me  on  the  other  side  of 
the  fire,  stared  straight  into  the  leaping  blaze;  but  I 
doubted  if  that  was  what  he  saw.  On  his  face  was 
the  look  which  I  had  come  to  know,  of  the  dignified 
householder  who  had  gone  in  and  shut  the  door  on 
whatever  of  dismay  and  confusion  might  be  in  his 
private  affairs.  I  began  to  read  his  father's  version 
of  the  separation  from  his  mother,  with  its  ironic  ref 
erences  to  her  most  intimate  friend. 

"Marion  would  like  to  see  Laura  Bowman  ship  Tony 
and  marry  Jim  Edwards.  I  swear  the  modern  woman 
has  played  bridge  so  long  that  her  idea  of  the  most 
serious  obligation  in  life — the  marriage  vow — is, 


128    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

'Never  mind.     If  you  don't  like  the  hand  you  have  got, 
shuffle,  cut,  and  deal  again !'  ' 

I  dropped  the  book  to  my  knee  and  looked  over  at 
Worth,  asking, 

"This  Mrs.  Dr.  Bowman  that  we  met  last  night  at 
Tait's — she  was  a  special  friend  of  your  mother's?" 

"They  were  like  sisters — in  more  than  one  way."  I 
knew  without  his  telling  it  that  he  alluded  to  their 
common  misfortune  of  being  both  unhappily  married. 
His  mother,  a  woman  of  more  force  than  the  other, 
had  gained  her  freedom. 

"Femina  Priores."  I  came  on  an  entry  standing 
oddly  alone.  "Marion  is  to  secure  the  divorce — at  my 
suggestion.  I  have  demanded  that  our  son  share  his 
time  between  us." 

Again  I  let  the  book  down  on  my  knee  and  looked 
across  at  the  silent  fellow  there.  And  I  had  heard  him 
compassionate  Barbara  Wallace  for  having  painful 
memories  of  her  childhood!  I  believe  he  was  at  that 
moment  more  at  peace  with  his  father  than  he  had  ever 
been  in  his  life — and  that  he  grieved  that  this  was  so. 
I  knew,  too,  that  the  forgiveness  and  forgetting  would 
not  extend  to  these  pitiless  records.  Without  disturb 
ing  him,  I  laid  the  book  I  held  down  and  scouted 
forward  for  things  more  recent. 

"Laura  Bowman" — through  one  entry  after  another 
Gilbert  kicked  that  poor  woman's  name  like  a  football. 
Very  fine  and  righteous  and  high-minded  in  what  he 
said,  but  writing  it  out  in  full  and  calling  her  painful 
difficulties — the  writhing  of  a  sensitive,  high-strung 
woman,  mismated  with  a  tyrant — an  example  notably 
stupid  and  unoriginal,  of  the  eternal  matrimonial  tri 
angle.  Bowman  evidently  kept  his  sympathy,  so  far 


THE  MISSING  DIARY  129 

as  such  a  nature  can  be  said  to  entertain  that  gentle 
emotion. 

I  ran  through  other  volumes,  merciless  recitals,  now 
and  again,  of  the  shortcomings  of  his  associates  or 
servants ;  a  cold  blooded  misrepresentation  of  his  son ; 
a  sneer  for  the  affair  with  Ina  Thornhill,  with  the  dic 
tum,  sound  enough  no  doubt,  that  the  girl  herself  did 
the  courting,  and  that  she  had  no  conscience — "The 
extreme  society  type  of  parasite,"  he  put  it.  And  then 
the  account  of  his  break  with  Edwards. 

Dr.  Bowman,  it  seems,  had  come  to  Gilbert  in  con 
fidence  for  help,  saying  that  his  wife  had  left  his  house 
in  the  small  hours  the  previous  night,  nothing  but  an 
evening  wrap  pulled  over  her  night  wear,  and  that  he 
guessed  where  she  could  be  found,  since  she  hadn't 
gone  to  her  mother's.  He  asked  Gilbert  to  be  his 
ambassador  with  messages  of  pardon.  Didn't  \vant 
to  go  himself,  because  that  would  mean  a  row,  and  he 
was  determined,  if  possible,  to  keep  the  thing  private, 
giving  a  generous  reason:  that  he  wasn't  willing  to 
disgrace  the  woman.  All  of  which,  after  he'd  written 
it  down,  the  diarist  discredited  with  his  brief  comment 
to  the  effect  that  Tony  Bowman  shunned  publicity 
because  scandal  of  the  sort  would  hurt  his  practice, 
and  his  pride  as  well,  and  that  he  didn't  go  out  to 
Jim  Edwards's  ranch  because,  under  these  circum 
stances,  he  would  be  afraid  of  Jim. 

Thomas  Gilbert  did  the  doctor's  errand  for  him. 
The  entry  concerning  it  occupied  the  next  day.  I  read 
between  the  lines  how  much  he  enjoyed  his  position 
of  god  from  the  machine,  swooping  down  on  the  two 
he  found  out  there,  estimating  their  situation  and 
behavior  in  his  usual  hair-splitting  fashion,  sitting  as 


130    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

a  court  of  last  appeal.  It  was  of  no  use  for  Edwards 
to  explain  to  him  that  Laura  Bowman  was  practically 
crazy  when  she  walked  out  of  her  husband's  house  as 
the  culmination  of  a  miserable  scene — the  sort  that 
had  been  more  and  more  frequent  there  of  late — 
carrying  black-and-blue  marks  where  he  had  grabbed 
and  shaken  her.  The  statement  that  it  was  by  mere 
chance  she  encountered  Jim  seemed  to  have  made  Gil 
bert  smile,  and  Jim's  taking  of  her  out  to  the  ranch, 
the  assertion  that  it  was  the  only  thing  to  do,  that  she 
was  sick  and  delirious,  had  inspired  Gilbert  to  say  to 
him,  quite  neatly,  "You  weren't  delirious,  I  take  it — 
not  more  than  usual." 

Then  he  demanded  that  Laura  go  with  him,  at  once, 
back  to  her  husband,  or  out  to  her  mother's.  She 
considered  the  matter  and  chose  to  go  back  to  Bow 
man,  saying  bitterly  that  her  mother  made  the  match 
in  the  first  place,  and  stood  always  against  her  daugh 
ter  and  with  her  son-in-law  whatever  he  did.  Plainly 
it  took  all  of  Laura's  persuasions  to  prevent  actual 
blows  between  Gilbert  and  Edwards.  Also,  she  would 
only  promise  to  go  back  and  live  under  Bowman's 
roof,  but  not  as  his  wife — and  the  whole  situation  was 
much  aggravated. 

I  followed  Mr.  Thomas  Gilbert's  observation  of  this 
affair:  his  amused  understanding  of  how  much  Jim 
Edwards  and  Laura  hated  him;  his  private  contempt 
for  Bowman,  to  whom  he  continued  to  give  counte 
nance  and  moral  support ;  his  setting  down  of  the  quar 
rels,  intimate,  disastrous,  between  Bowman  and  his 
wife,  as  the  doctor  retailed  them  to  him,  the  woman 
dragging  herself  on  her  knees  to  beg  for  her  freedom, 
and  his  callous  refusals;  backed  by  threat  of  the  wide 


THE  MISSING  DIARY  131 

publicity  of  a  -scandalous  divorce  suit,  with  Thomas 
Gilbert  as  main  witness.    I  turned  to  Worth  and  asked, 

"When  will  Edwards  be  here?" 

"Any  minute  now."  Worth  looked  at  me  queerly, 
but  I  went  on, 

"You  said  he  phoned  from  the  ranch.  Did  he  an 
swer  you  in  person — from  out  there?" 

"That's  what  I  told  you,  Jerry." 

My  searching  gaze  made  nothing  of  the  boy's  im 
passive  face;  I  plunged  again  into  the  diaries,  running 
down  a  page,  getting  the  heading  of  a  sentence,  not 
delaying  to  go  further  unless  I  struck  something  which 
seemed  to  me  important,  and  each  minute  thinking  of 
the  strangeness  of  a  man  like  this  killing  himself. 
It  was  in  the  1916  volume,  that  I  made  a  discovery 
which  surprised  an  exclamation  from  me. 

"What  would  you  call  this,  Worth?  Your  father's 
way  of  making  corrections?" 

"Corrections?"  Worth  spoke  without  looking 
around.  "My  father  never  made  corrections — in  any 
thing."  It  was  said  without  animus — a  simple  state 
ment  of  fact. 

"But  look  here."  I  held  toward  him  the  book. 
There  were  three  leaves  gone;  that  meant  six  pages, 
and  the  entries  covered  May  31  and  June  i.  I  had 
verified  that  before  I  spoke  to  him,  noticing  that  the 
statement  of  the  weather  for  May  31  remained  at  the 
foot  of  the  last  page  left,  while  a  run-over  on  the 
page  beyond  the  missing  ones  had  been  marked  out. 
It  had  nothing  to  do  with  the  weather.  As  nearly 
as  I  could  make  out  with  the  reading  glass  I  held  over 
it,  fhe  words  were,  "take  the  woman  for  no  other  than 
she  appears." 


132    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Worth,"  I  urged,  "give  me  your  attention  for  a 
minute  here.  You  say  your  father  did  not  make  cor 
rections,  but  one  of  the  diaries  is  cut.  The  records 
of  two  days  are  gone.  Were  those  pages  stolen?" 

"How  should  I  know?''  said  Worth,  and  added, 
helpfully,  "Pity  they  didn't  steal  the  whole  lot.  That 
would  have  been  a  relief." 

There  were  voices  and  the  sound  of  steps  outside. 
I  shoved  the  diary  back  into  its  place  on  the  shelf,  and 
turned  to  see  Barbara  at  the  broken  door  with  Jim 
Edwards.  She  came  in,  her  clear  eyes  a  little  wide, 
but  the  whole  young  personality  of  her  quite  composed. 
Edwards  halted  at  the  door,  a  haggard  eye  roving 
over  the  room,  until  it  encountered  the  blood-stain  on 
the  rug,  when  it  sheered  abruptly,  and  fixed  itself  on 
Worth,  who  crossed  to  shake  hands,  with  a  quiet, 

"Come  in,  won't  you,  Jim?  Or  would  you  rather 
go  up  to  the  house?" 

Keenly  I  watched  the  man  as  he  stood  there  strug 
gling  for  words.  There  was  color  on  his  thin  cheeks, 
high  under  the  dark  eyes ;  it  made  him  look  wild.  The 
chill  of  the  drive,  or  pure  nervousness,  had  him  shak 
ing. 

"Thank  you — the  house,  I  think,"  he  said  rather 
incoherently.  Yet  he  lingered.  "Barbara's  been  tell 
ing  me,"  he  said  in  that  deep  voice  of  his  with  the  air 
of  one  who  utters  at  random.  "Worth, — had  you 
thought  that  it  might  have  been  happening  down  here, 
right  at  the  time  we  all  sat  at  Tait's  together?" 

He  was  in  a  condition  to  spill  anything.  A  mo 
ment  more  and  we  should  have  heard  what  it  was  that 
had  him  in  such  .a  grip  of  horror.  But  as  I  glanced  at 
Worth,  I  saw  him  reply  to  the  older  man's  question 


THE  MISSING  DIARY  133 

with  a  very  slight  but  very  perceptible  shake  of  the  head. 
It  had  nothing  to  do  with  what  had  been  asked  him; 
to  any  eye  it  said  more  plainly  than  words,  "Don't 
talk;  pull  yourself  together."  I  whirled  to  see  how 
Edwards  responded  to  this,  and  found  our  group  had 
a  new  member.  In  the  door  stood  a  decent  looking, 
round  faced  Chinaman.  Edwards  had  drawn  a  little 
inside  the  threshold  for  him,  but  very  little,  and  waited, 
still  shaken,  perturbed,  hat  in  hand,  apparently  ready 
to  leave  as  soon  as  the  Oriental  got  out  of  his  way. 

"Hello,"  the  yellow  man  saluted  us. 

"Hello,  Chung,"  Worth  rejoined,  and  added,  "Looks 
good  to  see  you  again." 

I  was  relieved  to  hear  that.  It  showed  me  that  the 
cook,  anyhow,  had  not  seen  Worth  last  night  in  Santa 
Ysobel. 

"Just  now  I  hea'  'bout  Boss."  Chung's  eye  went 
straight  to  the  stain  on  the  rug,  exactly  as  Edwards' 
had  done,  but  it  stopped  there,  and  his  Oriental  im- 
passiveness  was  unmoved.  "Too  bad,"  he  concluded, 
thrust  the  fingers  of  one  hand  up  the  sleeve  of  the 
other  and  waited. 

"Where  you  been  all  day?"  I  said  quickly. 

"My  cousin'  ranch." 

"His  cousin's  got  a  truck  farm  over  by  Medlow — 
or  used  to  have,"  Worth  supplied,  and  Chung  looked 
to  him,  instantly. 

"You  sabbee,"  he  said  hopefully.  "I  go  iss  mo'ning 
— all  same  any  day — not  find  out  'bout  Boss.  Too 
bad.  Too  velly  much  bad."  A  pause,  then,  looking 
around  at  the  four  of  us,  "I  get  dinner?" 

"We've  all  had  something  to  eat,  Chung,"  Worth 
said.  "You  go  now  fix  room.  Make  bed.  To-night, 


134    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

I  stay;  Mr.  Boyne  here  stay;  Mr.  Edwards  stay.  Fix 
three  rooms.  Good  fire." 

"All  'ite,"  the  chink  would  have  ducked  out  then, 
Jim  Edwards  after  him,  but  I  stopped  the  proceedings 
with, 

"Hold  on  a  minute — while  we're  all  together — tell 
us  about  that  visitor  Mr.  Gilbert  had  last  night."  I 
was  throwing  a  rock  in  the  brush-pile  in  the  chance  of 
scaring  out  a  rabbit.  I  was  shooting  the  question  at 
Chung,  but  my  eye  was  on  Edwards.  He  glared  back 
at  me  for  a  moment,  then  couldn't  stand  the  strain 
and  looked  away.  At  last  the  Chinaman  spoke. 

"Not  see  um.     I  go  fix  bed  now." 

"Hold  on,"  again  I  stopped  him.  "Worth,  tell  him 
those  beds  can  wait.  Tell  him  it's  all  right  to  answer 
my  questions." 

" 'S  all  'ite?"  Chung  studied  us  in  turn.  I  was 
keeping  an  inconspicious  eye  on  Edwards  as  I  re 
assured  him.  "  'S  all  'ite,"  he  repeated  with  a  falling 
inflection  this  time,  and  finished  placidly,  "You  want 
know  'bout  lady?" 

"What's  all  this?"  Edwards  spoke  low. 

"About  a  lady  who  came  to  see  Mr.  Gilbert  last 
night,"  I  explained  shortly;  then,  "Who  was  she, 
Chung?" 

"Not  see  um  good."  The  Chinaman  shook  his 
head  gravely. 

"Did  she  come  here — to  the  study?"  I  asked.  He 
nodded.  Worth  moved  impatiently,  and  the  China 
man  caught  it.  He  fixed  his  eyes  on  Worth.  I 
stepped  between  them.  "Chung,"  I  said  sharply. 
"You  knew  the  lady.  Who  was  she?" 


THE  MISSING  DIARY  135 

"Not  see  um  good,"  he  repeated,  plainly  reluctant. 
"She  hold  hand  by  face— cly,  I  think." 

"Good  God!"  Edwards  broke  out  startlingly.  "If 
we're  going  to  hear  an  account  of  all  the  women  that 
Tom  lectured  and  made  cry — leave  me  out  of  it." 

"One  woman  will  do,  for  this  time,"  I  said  to  him 
drily,  "if  it's  the  right  one,"  and  he  subsided,  turning 
away.  But  he  did  not  go.  With  burning  eyes,  he 
stood  and  listened  while  I  cross-examined  the  unwill 
ing  Chung  and  got  apparently  a  straight  story  showing 
that  some  woman  had  come  to  the  side  door  of  his 
master's  house  shortly  after  dinner  Saturday  night, 
walked  to  the  study  with  that  master,  weeping,  and 
that  her  voice  when  he  heard  it,  sounded  like  that  of 
some  one  he  knew.  I  tried  every  way  in  the  world  to 
get  him  to  be  specific  about  this  voice;  did  it  sound 
like  that  of  a  young  lady?  an  old  lady?  did  he  think 
it  was  some  one  he  knew  well,  or  only  a  little?  had  he 
been  hearing  it  much  lately?  All  the  usual  tactics; 
but  Chung's  placid  obstinacy  was  proof  against  them. 
He  kept  shaking  his  head  and  saying  over  and  over, 

"No  hear  um  good,"  until  Barbara,  standing  watch 
fully  by,  said, 

"Chung,   you  think  that  lady  talk  like  this?" 

As  she  spoke,  after  the  first  word,  a  change  had 
come  into  her  voice;  it  was  lighter,  higher,  with  a 
something  in  its  character  faintly  reminiscent  to  my 
ear.  And  Chung  bobbed  his  head  quickly,  nodding 
assent.  In  her  mimicry  he  had  recognized  the  tones 
of  the  visitor.  I  glanced  at  Edwards :  he  looked 
positively  relieved. 

"I'll  go  to  the  house,  Worth,"  he  said  with  more 


136    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

composure  in  his  tone  than  I  would  have  thought  a 
few  moments  ago  he  could  in  any  way  summon. 
"You'll  find  me  there."  And  he  followed  the  China 
man  up  the  moonlit  path. 


A    MURDER 

1  STOOD  at  the  door  and  watched  until  I  saw  first 
Chung's  head  come  into  the  light  on  the  kitchen 
porch,  then  Jim  Edwards's  black  poll  follow  it.  I 
waited  until  both  had  gone  into  the  house  and  the 
door  was  shut,  before  I  went  back  to  Barbara  and 
Worth.  They  were  speaking  together  in  low  tones 
over  at  the  hearth.  The  three  of  us  were  alone;  and 
the  blood-stain  on  the  rug,  out  of  sight  there  in  the 
shadow  beyond  the  table,  would  seem  to  cry  out  as  a 
fourth. 

"Barbara,"  I  broke  in  across  their  talk,  "who  was 
the  woman  who  came  here  to  this  place  last  night?" 

She  didn't  answer  me.  Instead,  it  was  Worth  who 
spoke. 

"Better  come  here  and  listen  to  what  Bobs  has  been 
saying  to  me,  Jerry,  before  you  ask  any  questions." 

I  crossed  and  stood  between  the  two  young  people. 

"Well,"  I  grunted;  and  though  Barbara's  face  was 
white,  her  eyes  big  and  black,  she  answered  me  bravely, 

"Mr.  Gilbert  did  not  kill  himself.  Worth  doesn't 
think  so,  either." 

"What!"  It  was  jolted  out  of  me.  After  a  mo 
ment's  thought,  I  finished,  "Then  I've  got  to  know 
who  the  woman  was  that  visited  this  room  last  night." 

For  a  long  while  she  made  no  reply,  studying 
Worth's  profile  as  he  stared  steadily  into  the  fire. 

i37 


138    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

No  signal  passed  between  them,  but  finally  she  came 
to  her  decision  and  said, 

"Air.  Boyne,  ask  Worth  what  he  thinks  I  ought  to 
say  to  that." 

Instead,  "Who  was  it,  Worth?"  I  snapped,  speaking 
to  the  back  of  the  young  man's  head.  The  red  came 
up  into  the  girl's  face,  and  her  eyes  flashed ;  but  Worth 
merely  shrugged  averted  shoulders. 

"You  can  search  me,"  he  said,  and  left  it  there. 

I  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  these  young 
people :  Worth,  whom  I  loved  as  I  might  have  my  own 
son  had  I  been  so  fortunate  as  to  possess  one;  this 
girl  who  had  made  a  place  of  warmth  for  herself  in 
my  heart  in  less  than  a  day,  whose  loyalty  to  my  boy 
I  was  certain  I  might  count  on.  How  different  this 
affair  must  look  to  them  from  the  face  it  wore  to  me, 
an  old  police  detective,  who  had  bulled  through  many 
inquiries  like  this,  the  corpse  itself,  perhaps,  lying  in 
the  back  of  the  room,  instead  of  the  blood-stain  we 
had  there  on  the  rug;  what  was  practically  the  Third 
Degree  being  applied  to  relatives  and  friends;  with 
the  squalid  prospect  of  a  court  trial  ahead  of  us  all. 
If  they'd  seen  as  much  of  this  sort  of  thing  as  I  had, 
they  wouldn't  be  holding  me  up  now,  tying  my  hands 
that  were  so  willing  to  help,  by  this  fine-spun,  over 
strained  notion  of  shielding  a  woman's  name. 

"Barbara,"  I  began — I  knew  an  appeal  to  the  un 
accountable  Worth  would  get  me  nowhere — "the  facts 
we've  got  to  "deal  with  here  are  a  possible  murder, 
with-  this  lad  the  last  person  known — by  us,  of  course 
— to  have  seen  his  father  alive.  We  know,  too,  that 
they  quarreled  bitterly.  We  know  all  this.  Outside 
people,  men  who  are  interested,  and  more  or  less 


A  MURDER  139 

hostile,  were  aware  that  Worth  needed  money — needs 
it  yet,  for  that  matter — a  large  sum.  I  suppose  it 
is  a  question  of  time  when  it  will  be  known  that  Worth 
came  here  last  night;  and  when  it  is  known,  do  you 
realize  what  it  will  mean?" 

Worth  had  sat  through  this  speech  without  the 
quiver  of  a  muscle,  and  no  word  came  from  him  as  I 
paused  for  a  reply.  Little  Barbara,  big  eyes  boring 
into  me  as  though  to  read  all  that  was  in  the  back  of 
my  mind,  nodded  gravely  but  did  not  speak.  I  crossed 
to  the  shelves  and  took  down  the  diary  whose  leather 
back  bore  the  date  of  1916.  As  I  opened  it,  finding 
the  place  where  its  pages  had  been  removed,  I  con 
tinued, 

"You  and  I  know — we  three  here  know — "  I  in 
cluded  Worth  in  my  statement — "that  the  crime  was 
neither  suicide  nor  patricide;  but  it  is  likely  we  must 
have  proof  of  that  fact.  Unless  we  find  the  mur 
derer—" 

"But  the  motive — there  would  have  to  be  motive." 

Barbara  struck  right  at  the  core  of  the  thing.  She 
didn't  check  at  the  mere  material  facts  of  how  a 
murder  could  have  been  done,  who  might  have  had 
opportunity.  The  fundamental  question  of  why  it 
should  have  been  was  her  .immediate  interest. 

"I  believe  I've  the  motive  here,"  I  said  and  thrust 
the  mutilated  volume  into  her  hand.  "Some  one  stole 
these  leaves  out  of  Mr.  Gilbert's  diary.  The  books 
are  filled  with  intimate  details  of  the  affairs  of  people 
— things  which  people  prefer  should  not  be  known — 
names,  details  and  dates  written  out  completely.  It's 
likely  murder  was  done  last  night  to  get  possession 
of  those  pages." 


140   THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

She  went  to  the  desk  and  glanced  over  the  book; 
not  the  minute  examination  with  the  reading  glass 
which  I  had  given  it ;  that  mere  flirt  of  a  glance  which, 
when  I  had  first  noticed  it  the  night  before  at  Tait's, 
skimming  across  that  description  of  Clayte,  had  seemed 
so  inadequate.  Then  she  turned  to  me. 

"Mr.  Gilbert  cut  these  out  himself,"  she  pronounced. 

That  brought  Worth's  head  up  and  his  face  around 
to  stare  at  her. 

"You  say  my  father  removed  something  he  had 
written?"  he  asked.  Barbara  nodded.  "He  never 
changed  a  decision — and  those  books  were  his  decis 
ions." 

"Then  this  wasn't  a  correction,  but  he  cut  it  out. 
Can't  you  see,  Mr.  Boyne?  Those  leaves  were  re 
moved  by  a  man  who  respected  the  book  and  was  as 
careful  in  his  mutilation  of  it  as  he  was  in  its  making. 
It  is  precisely  written — I'm  referring  to  workman 
ship,  not  its  literary  quality — carefully  margined, 
evenly  indented  on  the  paragraph  beginnings.  And 
so,  in  this  removal  of  three  leaves,  the  cutting  was 
done  with  a  sharp  knife  drawn  along  the  edge  of  a 
ruler — "  I  picked  up  from  where  they  lay  on  the 
blotting  pad,  a  small  pearl-handled  knife,  its  sharp 
blade  open,  and  the  ruler  I  had  seen  when  looking 
down  from  the  skylight,  and  placed  them  before  her. 
She  nodded  and  continued, 

"There  is  a  bit  of  margin  left  so  no  other  leaves  can 
be  loosened  by  this  removal.  The  marking  out  of  the 
run-over  has  been  neatly  ruled,  done  so  recently  that 
the  ink  is  not  yet  black — done  with  that  ink  in  the 
stand.  It  was  blotted  with  this."  She  lifted  a  hand- 
blotter  to  show  me  the  print  of  a  line  of  ink.  There 


A  MURDER  141 

were  other  markings  on  the  face  of  the  soft  paper, 
and  I  took  it  eagerly.  Barbara  smiled. 

"You  will  get  little  from  that,"  she  said.  I  had 
not  even  seen  her  give  it  attention.  "Scattered  words 
' — and  parts  of  words,  blotted  frequently  as  they  were 
written.  Perhaps,  with  care,  we  might  learn  some 
thing,  but  we  can  turn  more  easily  to  the  last  pages 
of  his  diary  and — " 

"There  are  no  last  pages,"  I  interrupted.  "The 
1920  book  is  missing." 

"Gone — stolen?"  she  exclaimed.  It  brought  a  smile 
to  my  face.  For  the  first  time  in  my  experience  of 
this  pretty,  little  bunch  of  brains,  she  had  hazarded 
a  guess. 

"Gone,"  I  admitted  coolly — a  bit  sarcastically. 
"I've  no  reason  to  say  stolen." 

"But — yes,  you  have — you  have,  Mr.  Boyne!  If  it 
is  gone,  it  was  stolen.  Is  it  gone — are  you  sure  it  is 
gone?"  Eagerly  her  eyes  were  searching  desk,  cab 
inet,  the  shelf  where  the  other  diaries  made  their  long 
row.  I  satisfied  her  on  that  score. 

"I  have  searched  the  study  thoroughly;  it  is  not  in 
this  room." 

"Was  here  last  night,"  Worth  cut  in.  "I  saw  it  on 
the  desk." 

"And  was  stolen  last  night,"  Barbara  reaffirmed, 
quickly.  "These  books  are  too  big  to  be  slipped  into 
a  pocket,  so  we  can't  believe  it  was  left  upon  Mr. 
Gilbert's  person;  and  he  wouldn't  lend  it — wouldn't 
willingly  let  it  go  from  his  possession.  So  it  was 
stolen;  and  the  man  who  stole  it — killed  him."  She 
shuddered. 

That  was  going  too  swift  for  me  to  follow,  but  I 


142    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

saw  on  Worth  Gilbert's  face  his  acceptance  of  h. 
Either  conviction  of  Barbara's  infallibility,  or  some 
knowledge  locked  up  inside  his  own  ches.t,  made  him 
certain  the  diary  had  been  stolen,  and  the  thief  was 
his  father's  murderer.  In  a  flash,  I  remembered  his 
words,  "putting  every  damn'  word  of  our  row  into 
it,"  and  I  shot  straight  at  him, 

"Did  you  take  that  book,  Worth?" 

He  only  shook  his  head  and  answered, 

"You  heard  what   Bobs   said,   Jerry." 

If  he  took  the  book  he  killed  his  father;  that  was 
Barbara's  inference,  Worth's  acceptance.  I  threw 
back  my  shoulders  to  cast  off  the  suspicion,  then 
reached  across  to  place  my  fingers  under  the  girl's 
hand  and  pull  from  it  the  only  record  of  that  last 
written  page,  the  blotter. 

"Will  you  read  me  that?"  I  asked  her.  "Every 
word  and  part  of  a  word — every  letter?" 

Her  eyes  smiled  into  mine  with  a  reassurance  that 
was  like  balm.  Worth  rose  and  found  her  a  hand 
glass  on  the  mantel,  passing  it  to  her,  and  with  this 
to  reverse  the  scrawlings,  she  read  and  I  wrote  down 
in  my  memorandum  book  two  complete  words,  two 
broken  words  and  five  single  letters  picked  from  over 
lying  marks  that  were  too  confused  to  be  decipherable 
Though  the  three  of  us  struggled  with  them,  they  held 
no  meaning. 

Worth's  interest  quickly  ceased. 

"I'll  join  Jim  Edwards  in  the  house,"  he  said,  but 
I  stopped  him. 

"One  minute,  Worth.  There  was  a  woman  visitor 
here  last  night.  It  would  seem  she  carried  away  with 
her  the  diary  of  1920  and  three  leaves  from  the  book 


A  MURDER  143 

of  1916.  I  want  you — you  and  Barbara — to  tell  me 
what  you  know  that  happened  here  in  Santa  Ysobel 
on  the  dates  of  the  missing  pages,  May  31  and  June 
i,  1916." 

Barbara  accepted  the  task,  turning  that  wonderful 
cinematograph  memory  back,  and  murmured, 

"I  never  tried  recollecting  on  just  a  bare  date  this 
way,  but — "  then  glanced  around  at  me  and  finished 
— "nothing  happened  to  me  in  Santa  Ysobel  then, 
because  I  wasn't  in  Santa  Ysobel.  I  was  in  San 
Francisco  and — " 

"And  I  was  in  Flanders,  so  that  lets  me  out,"  Worth 
broke  in  brusquely.  "I'll  go  into  the  house." 

"Wait,  Worth."  I  placed  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"Go  on,  Barbara;  you  had  thought  of  something." 

"Yes.  Father  died  in  January  of  that  year,  and  in 
March  I  had  to  vacate  the  house.  It  had  been  sold, 
and  they  wanted  to  fix  it  over.  I  left  Santa  Ysobel 
on  the  eighteenth  of  March,  but  they  didn't  get  into 
the  house  until  June  first." 

Again  Worth  interrupted. 

"Which  jogs  my  memory  for  an  unexciting  detail." 
He  smiled  enigmatically.  "I  was  jilted  June  first." 

"In  Flanders?"  How  many  times  had  this  lad  been 
jilted? 

"No.  Right  here.  I  wasn't  here  of  course,  but  the 
letter  which  did  the  trick  was  written  here,  and  bore 
that  date — June  one,  1916." 

"How  do  you  get  the  date  so  pat?" 

"It  was  handed  me  by  the  mail  orderly — I  was  on 
the  Verdun  sector  then — on  the  morning  of  the  Fourth 
of  July.  Remember  the  date  the  letter  was  written 
because  of  the  quick  time  it  made.  Most  of  our  mail 


144   THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

took  from  six  weeks  to  eternity.  What  are  you  smil 
ing  at,  Bobs?" 

"Just  a  little — you  don't  mind,  do  you? — at  your 
saying  you  remember  Ina's  letter  by  the  quick  time  it 
made  in  reaching  you." 

"Who  bought  your  house,  Barbara?"  I  asked  her. 

"Dr.  Bowman — or  rather  Mrs.  Bowman's  uncle 
bought  it  and  gave  it  to  her." 

"And  they  went  in  on  the  first  of  June,  1916?" 
I  was  all  excitement,  turning  the  pages  of  the  diary 
to  get  to  certain  points  I  remembered.  "What  can 
either  one  of  you  tell  me  about  the  state  of  affairs 
at  that  time  between  Dr.  Bowman  and  his  wife — and 
that  man  who  was  just  in  here — Jim  Edwards?" 

Worth  turned  a  hostile  back;  Barbara  seemed  to 
shrink  in  her  chair.  I  hated  like  a  whipping  to  pull 
this  sort  of  stuff  on  them,  but  I  knew  that  Barbara's 
knowledge  of  Worth's  danger  would  reconcile  her  to 
whatever  painful  thing  must  be  done,  and  I  had  to 
know  who  was  that  visitor  of  last  night. 

"Is  that — that  stuff  in  those  damnable  books?"  I 
saw  the  hunch  of  Worth's  broad  shoulders. 

"Some  of  it  is — some  of  it  has  been  cut  out,"  I 
replied. 

"And  you  connect  Jim  Edwards  with  this  crime?" 

"I  don't  connect  him — he  connects  himself — by 
them,  and  by  his  manner." 

"Burn  them!"  He  faced  me,  came  over  and  reached 
for  the  book.  "Dump  the  whole  rotten  mess  into  the 
fire,  Jerry,  and  be  done  with  it." 

"Easy  said,  but  that  would  sure  be  a  short  cut  to 
trouble.  Tell  me,  I've  got  to  know,  if  you  think  this 


A  MURDER  145 

man  Edwards — under  great  provocation — capable  of 
— well,  of  killing  a  fellow  creature." 

"Jerry,"  Worth  took  the  book  out  of  my  hand  and 
laid.it  on  the  table,  "what  you  want  to  do  is  to  forget 
this — dirt — that  you've  been  reading,  and  go  at  this 
thing  without  prejudice.  If  you  open  any  trails  and 
they  lead  in  my  direction,  don't  be  afraid  to  follow 
them.  This  thing  of  trying  to  find  a  criminal  in  some 
one  that  my  father  has  already  deeply  injured — some 
one  that  he's  made  life  a  hell  for — so  that  suspicion 
needn't  be  directed  to  me,  makes  me  sick.  If  I'd 
allow  you  to  do  it,  I'd  be  yellow  clear  through." 

That  was  about  the  longest  speech  I'd  heard  Worth 
Gilbert  make  since  his  return  from  France.  And  he 
meant  every  word  of  it,  too;  but  it  didn't  suit  me. 
This  "Hew  to  the  line"  stuff  is  all  right  until  the 
chips  begin  whacking  the  head  of  your  friend.  In 
this  case  there  wasn't  a  doubt  in  my  mind  that  when 
a  breath  of  suspicion  got  out  that  Thomas  Gilbert  had 
not  killed  himself,  that  minute  would  see  the  first 
finger  point  at  Thomas  Gilbert's  son  as  the  murderer. 
So  I  grumbled, 

"Just  the  same,  Edwards  has  something  on  his  mind 
about  last  night." 

"He  has — and  it's  pretty  nearly  tearing  him  to 
pieces,"  Worth  admitted,  but  would  go  no  further. 

"He  was  here  last  night,  I'm  sure — and  Mrs.  Bow 
man  was  with  him,"  I  ventured. 

Barbara,  who  had  been  sitting  through  this  her 
eyes  on  Worth,  turned  from  him  to  me  and  pro 
nounced,  gently, 

"Yes,  he  was  here,  and  Laura  was  with  him." 


146   THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Bobs!"  Worth  spoke  so  sternly  that  she  glanced 
up  startled.  "I'll  not  stand  for  you  throwing  sus 
picion  on  Jim." 

"Did  I — do  that?"  her  lip  trembled.  Worth's  eyes 
were  on  the  fire. 

"Don't  quarrel  with  the  girl,"  I  remonstrated.  Bar 
bara  had  told  me  the  visitor;  I  covered  my  elation 
with,  "She's  only  looking  out  for  your  safety." 

"I  can  look  out  for  myself,"  curtly.  He  turned 
hard  eyes  on  us.  It  made  me  feel  put  away  from 
him,  chucked  out  from  his  friendship.  "And  I  never 
quarreled  with  anybody  in  my  life.  Sometimes — " 
he  turned  from  one  to  the  other  of  us,  speaking  slowly, 
"Sometimes  I  seem  to  antagonize  people,  for  no 
reason  that  I  can  see;  and  sometimes  I  fight;  but  I 
never  quarrel." 

"No  offense  intended — or  taken,"  I  assured  him 
hastily.  My  heart  was  full  of  his  danger,  and  I  told 
myself  that  it  was  his  misery  spoke,  and  not  the  true 
Worth  Gilbert.  But  a  very  pale  and  subdued  Bar 
bara  said  tremulously, 

"I  guess  I'd  better  go  home  now,"  suggesting,  after 
the  very  slightest  pause,  "Mr.  Royne  can  take  me." 

"Don't,  Bobsie."  Worth's  voice  was  gentle  again, 
but  absent.  It  sounded  as  though  he  had  already  for 
gotten  both  of  us,  and  our  possible  cause  of  offense. 
"Go  to  the  house  with  Jerry.  I'll  bar  the  door  and 
follow." 

"Can't  I  help  with  that?"  I  offered. 

"No.  Eddie  will  give  me  a  hand  if  I  need  it.  Go 
on.  I'll  be  with  you  in  a  minute." 


CHAPTER  XIII 

DR.  BOWMAN 

BUT  it  was  considerably  more  than  a  minute  be 
fore  Worth  followed  us  to  the  house.  We 
walked  slowly,  talking;  when  I  looked  back  from  the 
kitchen  porch,  Worth  had  already  come  outside,  and  I 
thought  Eddie  Hughes  was  with  him,  though  I  heard 
no  voices  and  couldn't  be  sure  on  account  of  the 
shrubbery  between. 

Getting  into  the  house  we  found  that  Chung  had 
the  downstairs  all  opened  up  through,  lights  going, 
heat  turned  on  from  the  basement  furnace ;  everywhere 
that  tended,  homelike  appearance  a  competent  servant 
gives  a  place.  On  the  hallj:able  as  we  passed,  I  noticed 
a  doctorish  top  coat,  with  a  primly  folded  muffler  laid 
across  it. 

"Dr.  Bowman  is  here,"  Barbara  said  hardly  above 
her  breath. 

We  listened;  no  sound  of  voices  from  the  living 
room;  then  I  got  the  tramp  of  feet  that  moved  back 
and  forth  in  there.  We  opened  the  door,  and  there 
were  the  two  men ;  a  queer  proposition ! 

Bowman  had  taken  a  chair  pretty  well  in  the  middle 
of  the  room.  It  was  Jim  Edwards  whose  feet  I  had 
heard  as  he  roamed  about.  No  word  was  going  be 
tween  them;  apparently  they  hadn't  spoken  to  each 
other  at  all ;  the  looks  that  met  or  avoided  were  those 

147 


148    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

strange  looks  of  persons  who  live  in  lengthened  and 
what  might  be  termed  intimate  hostility. 

"Ah — Boyne — isn't  it?"  Bowman  greeted  me;  I 
thought  our  coming  relieved  the  situation.  He  shook 
hands,  then  turned  to  Barbara  with,  "Mrs.  Thornhill 
said  you  were  here ;  I  told  her  I  would  bring  you  back 
with  me." 

I  rather  wondered  not  to  hear  him  insist  on  being 
taken  at  once  to  the  study,  but  his  next  words  gave  the 
reason.  He'd  reached  Santa  Ysobel  too  late  for  the 
inquest  itself,  but  not  too  late  to  make  what  he  in 
formed  us  was  a  thorough  investigation  of  everything 
it  treated  of. 

Barbara  and  I  found  places  on  the  davenport;  Ed 
wards  prowled  up  and  down  the  other  end  of  the  room, 
openly  in  torment.  Those  stormy  black  eyes  of  his 
were  seldom  off  Bowman,  while  the  doctor's  gray, 
heavy-lidded  gaze  never  got  beyond  the  toes  of  the  rest 
less  man's  moving  boots.  He  had  begun  a  grumbling 
tale  of  the  coroner's  incompetence  and  neglect  to  re 
open  the  inquest  when  he,  the  family  physician, 
arrived,  as  though  that  were  important,  when  Worth 
came  in. 

Instantly  the  doctor  was  on  his  feet,  had  paced  up 
to  the  new  master  of  the  house,  and  began  pumping 
his  arm  in  a  long  handshake,  while  he  passed  out  those 
platitudes  of  condolence  a  man  of  his  sort  deals  in  at 
such  a  time.  The  stuff  I'd  been  reading  in  those 
diaries  had  told  me  what  was  the  root  and  branch  of 
his  friendship  with  the  dead  man ;  it  made  the  hair  at 
the  back  of  my  neck  lift  to  hear  him  boasting  of  it  in 
Jim  Edwards'  presence,  and  know  what  I  knew. 
"And,  my  dear  boy,"  he  finished,  "they  tell  me  you've 


DR.  BOWMAN  149 

not  been  to  view  the  body — yet.  I  thought  perhaps 
you'd  like  to  go — with  me.  I  can  have  my  machine 
here  in  a  minute.  No?"  as  Worth  declined  with  a 
wordless  shake  of  the  head. 

I  hoped  he'd  leave  then ;  but  he  didn't.  Instead,  he 
turned  back  to  his  chair,  explaining, 

"If  Mrs.  Thornhill's  cook  hadn't  phoned  me,  when 
Mrs.  Thornhill  had  a  second  collapse  last  night,  I 
suppose  I  should  be  in  San  Francisco  still.  The 
coroner  seemed  to  think  there  was  no  necessity  for 
having  competent  medical  testimony  as  to  the  time  of 
death,  and  the  physical  condition  of  the  deceased.  I 
should  have  been  wired  for.  The  inquest  should  have 
been  delayed  until  I  arrived.  The  way  the  thing  was 
managed  was  disgraceful." 

"It  was  merciful."  Jim  Edwards  spoke  as  though 
unwillingly,  in  a  muttered  undertone.  Evidently  it 
was  the  first  word  he'd  addressed  to  Bowman — if  he 
could  be  said  to  address  him  now,  as  he  finished,  "I 
hadn't  thought  of  an  inquest.  Yet  of  course  there'd 
be  one  in  a  case  of  suicide." 

Bowman  only  heard  and  wholly  misconstrued  him, 
snatching  at  the  concluding  words, 

"Of  course  it  was  suicide.  Done  with  his  own 
weapon,  taken  from  the  holster  where  we  know  it  al 
ways  hung,  fully  loaded.  The  muzzle  had  been  pressed 
so  close  against  the  breast  when  the  cartridge  exploded 
that  the  woolen  vest  had  taken  fire.  I  should  say  it 
had  smouldered  for  some  time;  there  was  a  consider 
able  hole  burned  in  the  cloth.  The  flesh  around  the 
wound  was  powder-scarred." 

Worth  took  it  like  a  red  Indian.  I  could  see  by  the 
glint  of  his  eye  as  it  flickered  over  the  doctor's  face, 


ISO    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

the  smooth  white  hands,  the  whole  smooth  personality, 
that  the  boy  disliked,  and  had  always  disliked  him. 
Yet  he  listened  silently. 

I  rather  hoped  by  leading  questions  to  get  Bowman 
to  express  the  opinion  that  Thomas  Gilbert  had  been 
killed  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  Circum 
stances  then  would  have  fitted  in  with  Eddie  Hughes. 
Eddie  Hughes  was  to  me  the  most  acceptable  murderer 
in  sight.  But  no — nothing  would  do  him  but  to  stick 
to  the  hour  the  coroner  had  accepted. 

"Medical  science  cannot  determine  closer  than  that," 
he  was  very  final.  "The  death  took  place  within  an 
hour  preceding  midnight." 

"You  are  positive  it  couldn't  be  this  morning?"  I 
asked. 

"Positive." 

Well,  Dr.  Bowman's  testimony,  if  accepted  at  the 
value  the  doctor  himself  placed  upon  it,  would  clear 
Worth  of  suspicion,  for  the  lad  was  with  me  at  Tait's 
from  a  few  minutes  past  ten  until  after  one;  and  Jim 
Edwards,  now  pacing  the  floor  so  restlessly,  had  also 
been  there  the  greater  part  of  that  time.  I  had  had 
too  much  experience  with  doctor's  guesses  based  on 
rigor  mortis  to  let  it  affect  my  views. 

In  the  minute  of  silence,  we  could  hear  Chung  mov 
ing  about  at  the  back  of  the  house.  The  doctor  spoke 
querulously. 

"Never  expect  anything  of  a  Chinaman,  but  I 
should  think  when  the  chauffeur  found  the  body  he 
might  have  had  sense  enough  to  summon  friends  of 
the  family.  He  could  have  phoned  me — I  was  only 
in  San  Francisco." 


DR.  BOWMAN  151 

"He  could  have  phoned  me  at  the  ranch,"  Jim  Ed 
wards'  deep  voice  came  in. 

"You?  Why  should  he  phone  for  you?"  Bow 
man  wheeled  on  him  at  last.  "I  was  the  man's  phy 
sician,  as  well  as  his  close  friend.  Everybody  knows 
you  weren't  on  good  terms  with  him.  Gad !  You 
wouldn't  be  here  in  this  house  to-night,  if  he  were 
alive." 

In  the  sort  of  silence  that  comes  when  some  one's 
been  suddenly  struck  in  the  face,  Worth  crossed  to 
Edwards  and  laid  an  arm  along  his  shoulders. 

"I've  asked  Jim  to  stay  in  my  place,  here,  in  my 
house,  while  I'm  away  over  Monday — and  he  can  do 
as  he  likes  about  whom  he  chooses  to  have  around." 

Bowman  gradually  got  to  his  feet,  his  face  a  study. 

"I  see,"  he  said.  "Then  I'll  not  trespass  on  your 
time  any  longer.  I  felt  obliged  to  offer  my  services 
.  .  .  patients  of  mine  .  .  .  for  years  ...  in  afflic 
tion  .  .  .  "  a  gleam  of  anger  came  into  his  fishy  eyes. 
"I've  been  met  with  damned  insolence.  .  .  .  Claiming 
of  the  house  before  your  father's  decently  in  his 
grave."  He  jerked  fully  erect.  "Leave  your  affairs 
in  the  hands  of  that  degenerate.  If  he  doesn't  do  you 
dirt,  you'll  be  the  first  he's  let  off!  Come,  Miss  Bar 
bara,"  to  the  girl  who  sat  beside  me,  looking  on  mutely 
observant. 

"Thank  you,  doctor."  She  answered  him  as  tran 
quilly  as  though  no  voice  had  been  raised  in  anger  in 
that  room.  "I  think  I'll  stay  a  little  longer.  Jim 
will  take  me  home." 

The  doctor  glared  and  stalked  out.  To  the  last  I 
think  he  was  expecting  some  one  to  stop  him  and 


152    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

apologize.  I  suppose  this  was  what  Worth  described 
naively  as  "antagonizing  people  without  intending  to." 
Well,  it  might  not  be  judicious;  I  certainly  was  glad 
the  doctor  was  so  sure  of  the  time  at  which  his  friend 
Gilbert  had  met  death;  yet  I  couldn't  but  enjoy  seeing 
him  get  his.  As  soon  as  the  man's  back  was  turned, 
Edwards  beckoned  Barbara  to  the  window.  Worth 
and  I  left  them  talking  together  there  in  low  tones,  he 
to  get  something  he  wanted  from  a  case  in  the  hall, 
where  he  called  me  to  the  phone,  saying  long  distance 
wanted  me.  While  I  was  waiting  for  my  connection 
(Central,  as  usual,  having  gotten  me,  now  couldn't  get 
the  other  party)  the  two  came  from  the  living  room 
and  Barbara  said  "Good  night"  to  us  in  passing. 

"Those  two  seem  to  have  something  on  hand,"  I 
commented  as  they  went  out.  "The  little  girl  gave 
Bowman  one  for  himself — in  the  nicest  possible  way. 
Don't  wonder  Edwards  likes  her  for  it." 

"Poor  Laura  Bowman!  Her  friends  take  turns 
giving  that  bloodless  lizard  she's  tied  to,  one  for  him 
self  any  time  they  can,"  Worth  said.  "My  mother 
used  to  handle  the  doctor  something  like  that;  and 
now  it's  Barbara — little  Bobsie  Wallace — God  bless 
her!" 

He  went  on  into  the  dining  room.  I  looked  after 
his  unconscious,  departing  figure  and  thought  he  de 
served  a  good  licking.  Why  couldn't  he  have  spoken 
that  way  to  the  girl  herself?  Why  hadn't  he  taken 
her  home,  instead  of  leaving  it  to  Edwards?  Then 
I  got  my  call  and  answered, 

"This  is  Boyne.     Put  them  through." 

In  a  minute  came  Roberts'  voice. 

"Hello,  Mr.  Boyne?" 


DR.  BOWMAN  153 

"Yes.     What  you  got?" 

"Telegram — Hicks — Los  Angeles.  He's  located 
Steve  Skeels— 

".Read  me  the  wire,"  I  broke  in. 

"All  right."  A  pause,  then,  "  'Skeels  arrived  here 
from  'Frisco  this  morning  shall  I  arrest?' ' 

"Good!"  I  exclaimed.  "Wire  him  to  keep  Steve 
under  surveillance  and  await  instructions.  Tell  him 
not  to  lose  him.  Get  it,  Roberts?  Hustle  it.  I'll  be 
in  by  nine.  Good-by,"  and  I  hung  up. 

I  looked  around;  Worth  had  gone  into  the  dining 
room ;  I  stepped  to  the  door  and  saw  him  kneeling  be 
fore  an  open  lower  door  of  the  built-in  sideboard,  and 
noted  that  the  compartment  had  been  steel  lined  and 
Yale-locked,  making  a  sort  of  safe.  A  lamp  at  the 
end  of  an  extension  wire  stood  on  the  floor  beside 
him;  he  looked  around  at  me  over  his  shoulder  as  I 
put  my  head  in  to  say, 

"Stock  in  your  old  suitcase  has  gone  up  a  notch, 
Worth.  We've  caught  Skeels." 

"So  soon?"  was  all  he  said.  But  my  news  seemed 
to  decide  something  for  him;  with  a  sharp  gesture  of 
finality,  he  put  into  his  breast  pocket  the  package  of 
papers  he  had  been  looking  at. 

When  a  little  later,  Edwards  came  in,  Worth  was 
waiting  for  him  in  the  hall. 

"Do  we  go  now?"  the  older  man  asked,  wincing. 
Worth  nodded. 

"Take  your  machine,  Jim,"  he  said.  "We  can  park 
it  at  Fuller's  and  walk  back  from  there.  Boyne's 
roadster  is  in  our  garage." 

"Anything  wrong  with  Eddie  Hughes?"  Edwards 
asked  as  he  stepped  in  to  get  his  driving  gloves.  "I 


154    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

passed  him  out  there  headed  for  town  lugging  a  lot  of 
freight,  and  the  fellow  growled  like  a  dog  when  I 
spoke  to  him." 

"I  fired  him.     Come  on,  Jim — let's  get  out  of  this." 

"Hold  on,  Worth,"  I  took  a  hand.  "Fired 
Hughes?  When?" 

"While  I  was  fixing  up  that  door — after  you  and 
Bobs  came  to  the  house." 

"What  in  God's  name  for?"  I  asked  in  exaspera 
tion. 

"For  giving  me  back  talk,"  said  the  youth  who 
never  quarreled  with  any  one. 

He  and  Edwards  tramped  out  together.  I  realized 
that  the  hostile  son  and  an  alienated  friend  had  gone 
for  a  last  look  at  the  clay  that  had  yesterday  been 
Thomas  Gilbert.  Of  course  Worth  would  do  that 
before  he  left  Santa  Ysobel.  But  would  Edwards  go 
in  with  him — or  was  he  only  along  to  drive  the  ma 
chine?  It  might  be  worth  my  while  to  know.  But  I 
could  ask  to-morrow;  it  wasn't  worth  a  tired  man's 
waiting  up  for.  We  must  make  an  early  start  in  the 
morning.  I  went  upstairs  to  bed. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

SEVEN   LOST  DAYS 

INSTEAD  of  driving  up  to  San  Francisco  with 
Worth  and  Barbara,  the  next  morning,  I  was 
headed  south  at  a  high  rate  of  speed.  Sitting  in  the 
Pullman  smoker,  going  ever  what  had  happened  and 
what  I  had  made  of  it,  vainly  studying  a  small,  blue 
blotter  with  some  senseless  hieroglyphics  reversed  up 
on  it,  I  wasn't  at  all  sure  that  this  move  of  mine  was 
anywhere  near  the  right  one.  But  the  thing  hit  me 
so  quick,  had  to  be  decided  in  a  flash,  and  my  snap 
judgment  never  was  good. 

We  were  all  at  breakfast  there  at  the  Gilbert  house 
when  I  got  the  phone  that  those  boobs  down  in  Los 
Angeles  had  let  Skeels  slip  through  their  fingers.  I 
could  see  no  way  but  to  go  myself.  When  I  went 
out  to  retrieve  my  hand  bag  from  the  roadster,  there 
was  Barbara  already  in  the  seat.  I  delayed  a  minute 
to  explain  to  her.  She  was  full  of  eager  interest ;  it 
seemed  to  her  that  Skeels  ducking  the  detectives  that 
way  was  more  than  clever — almost  worthy  of  a 
wonder  man. 

"Slickest  thing  I  ever  knew,"  I  grumbled.  "You 
can  gamble  I  wouldn't  be  going  south  after  him  if 
Skeels  hadn't  shown  himself  too  .many  for  the  Hicks 
agency — and  they're  one  of  the  best  in  the  business." 

Worth  came  out  and  settled  himself  at  the  wheel ;  he 
and  Edwards  exchanged  a  last,  low-toned  word;  and 

155 


156    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

they  were  ready  to  be  off.  Barbara  leaned  towards 
me  with  shining  eyes. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  "Skeels  might  even  be  Clayte!" 
then  the  roadster  whisked  her  away. 

The  bulk  of  Worth  Gilbert's  fortune  was  practically 
tied  up  in  this  affair.  Even  as  the  Pullman  carried 
me  Los  Angeles-ward,  that  boy  was  getting  in  to 
San  Francisco,  going  to  the  bank,  and  turning  over  to 
them  capital  that  represented  not  only  his  wealth  but 
his  honor.  If  we  failed  to  trace  this  money,  he  was 
a  discredited  fool.  Yes,  I  had  done  right  to  come. 

So  far  on  that  side.  Then  apprehension  began  to 
mutter  within  me  about  the  situation  at  Santa  Ysobel. 
How  long  would  that  coroner's  verdict  of  suicide  sat 
isfy  the  public?  How  soon  would  some  seepage  of 
fact  indicate  that  the  death  was  murder  and  set  the 
whole  town  to  looking  for  a  murderer?  The  minute 
this  happened,  the  real  criminal  would  take  alarm  and 
destroy  evidence  I  might  have  gathered  if  I  had  stayed 
by  the  case.  I  promised  myself  that  it  should  be 
simply  "there  and  back"  with  me  in  the  Skeels  matter. 

This  is  the  way  it  looked  to  me  in  the  Pullman ;  then 
— once  in  Los  Angeles — I  allowed  myself  to  get  hot 
telling  the  Hicks  people  what  I  thought  of  them,  ex- 
paining  how  I'd  have  run  the  chase,  and  wound  up  by 
giving  seven  days  to  it — seven  precious,  irreclaimable 
days — while  everything  lay  wide  open  there  in  the 
north,  and  I  couldn't  get  any  satisfactory  word  from 
the  office,  and  none  of  any  sort  from  Worth. 

That  Skeels  trail  kept  me  to  it,  with  my  tongue 
hanging  out;  again  and  again  I  seemed  to  have  him; 
every  time  I  missed  him  by  an  hour  or  so;  and  that 
convinced  me  that  he  was  straining  every  nerve,  and 


SEVEN  LOST  DAYS  157 

that  he  probably  had  the  whole  of  the  loot  still  with 
him.  At  last,  I  seemed  to  have  him  in  a  perfect  trap 
— Ensenada,  on  the  Peninsula.  You  get  into  and  out 
of  Ensenada  by  steamboat  only,  except  back  to  the 
mines  on  foot  or  donkey.  The  two  days  I  had  to  wait 
over  in  San  Diego  for  the  boat  which  would  follow 
the  one  Skeels  had  taken  were  a  mighty  uneasy  time. 
If  I'd  imagined  for  a  moment  that  he  wasn't  on  the 
dodge — that  he  was  there  openly — I'd  have  wired  the 
Mexican  authorities,  and  had  him  waiting  for  me  in 
jail.  But  the  Mexican  officials  are  a  rotten  lot;  it 
seemed  to  me  best  to  go  it  alone. 

What  I  found  in  Ensenada  was  that  Skeels  had  been 
there,  quite  publicly,  under  his  own  name;  he  had 
come  alone  and  departed  with  a  companion,  Hinch 
Dial,  a  drill  operator  from  the  mines,  a  transient,  a 
pick-up  laborer,  seemingly  as  close-mouthed  as  Silent 
Steve  himself.  Steve  had  come  on  one  steamer  and 
the  two  had  left  on  the  next.  That  north-bound  boat 
we  passed  two  hours  off  Point  Loma  was  carrying 
Skeels  and  his  pal  back  to  San  Diego ! 

Again  two  days  lost,  waiting  for  the  steamer  back. 
And  when  I  got  to  San  Diego,  the  trail  was  stone  cold. 
I  had  sent  Worth  almost  daily  reports  in  care  of  my 
office,  not  wanting  them  to  lie  around  at  Santa  Ysobel 
during  the  confusion  of  the  funeral  and  all;  but  even 
before  I  went  to  Ensenada,  telegrams  from  Roberts 
had  informed  me  that  these  reports  could  not  be  de 
livered  as  Worth  had  not  been  at  the  office,  and  tele 
phone  messages  to  Santa  Ysobel  and  the  Palace  Hotel 
had  failed  to  locate  him.  When  I  believed  I  had 
Skeels  firmly  clasped  in  the  jaws  of  the  Ensenada  trap, 
I  had  sent  a  complete  report  of  my  doings  up  to  that 


158    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

time,  and  the  optimistic  outlook  then,  to  Barbara  with 
instructions  for  her  to  get  it  to  Worth.  She  would 
know  where  he  was. 

But  she  hadn't.  Her  reply,  waiting  at  San  Diego 
for  me,  a  delicious  little  note  that  somehow  lightened 
the  bitterness  of  my  disappointment  over  Skeels,  told 
me  that  she  had  seen  Worth  at  the  funeral,  almost 
a  week  ago  now,  but  only  for  a  minute;  that  she  had 
supposed  he  had  joined  me  on  the  Skeels  chase;  and 
she  would  now  try  to  hunt  him  up  and  deliver  my  re 
port.  Roberts,  too,  had  a  line  in  one  of  his  reports 
that  Worth  had  called  for  the  suitcase  on  the  Monday 
I  left  and  had  neither  returned  it  nor  been  in  the  office 
since. 

I  worried  not  at  all  over  Worth;  if  he  wanted  to 
play  hide  and  seek  with  Dykeman's  spotters,  he  was 
thoroughly  capable  of  looking  after  himself;  but  in 
the  Skeels  matter,  I  did  then  what  I  should  have  done 
in  the  first  place,  of  course;  turned  the  work  over  to 
subordinates  and  headed  straight  home. 

I  reached  San  Francisco  pretty  well  used  up.  It 
was  nearly  the  middle  of  the  forenoon  next  day  when 
I  got  to  my  desk  and  found  it  piled  high  with  mail 
that  had  accumulated  in  my  absence.  Roberts  had 
looked  after  what  he  could,  and  sorted  the  rest,  ready 
for  me.  Everything  concerning  the  Clayte  case  was 
in  one  basket.  As  Roberts  handed  it  to  me,  he  ex 
plained. 

"The  Van  Ness  bank  attorney — Cummings — has 
been  keeping  tabs  on  you  tight,  Mr.  Boyne.  Here 
every  day — sometimes  twice.  Wants  to  know  the 
minute  you're  back." 

I  grunted  and  dived  into  the  letters.     Nothing  in- 


SEVEN  LOST  DAYS  159 

teresting.  Responses  acknowledging  receipts  of  my 
early  inquiries.  Roberts  lingered. 

"Well?"  I  shot  at  him.  He  moved  uneasily  as  he 
asked. 

"Did  you  wire  him  when  you  were  coming  back?" 

"Cummings?     No.     Why?" 

"He  telephoned  in  just  before  you  came  saying  that 
he'd  be  right  up  to  see  you.  I  told  him  you  hadn't 
returned.  He  laughed  and  hung  up." 

"All  right,  .Roberts.  Send  him  in  when  he  comes." 
I  dismissed  the  secretary.  Cummings  was  keeping 
tabs  on  me  with  a  vengeance.  What  was  on  his  chest  ? 

I  didn't  need  to  wait  long  to  find  out.  In  another 
minute  he  was  at  my  door  greeting  me  in  an  off-hand, 
"Hello,  Boyne.  Ready  to  jump  into  your  car  and 
go  around  with  me  to  see  Dykeman?" 

"Just  got  down  to  the  office,  Cummings,"  I 
watched  him,  trying  to  figure  out  where  I  stood  and 
where  he  stood  after  this  week's  absence.  "Haven't 
seen  Worth  Gilbert  yet.  What's  the  rush  with  Dyke 
man?" 

"You'll  find  out  when  you  get  there." 

Not  very  friendly,  seeing  that  Cummings  had  been 
Worth's  lawyer  in  the  matter,  and  aside  from  that 
queer  scene  in  my  office,  there'd  been  no  actual  break. 
He  stood  now,  not  really  grinning  at  me,  but  with  an 
amused  look  under  that  bristly  mustache,  and  sug 
gested, 

"So  you  haven't  seen  young  Gilbert?" 

The  tone  was  so  significant  that  I  gave  him  a  quick 
glance  of  inquiry  as  I  said, 

"No.     What  about  him?" 

"Put  on  your  coat  and  come  along.     We  can  talk 


160   THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

on  the  way,"  he  replied,  and  I  went  with  him  to  the 
street,  dug  little  Pete  out  of  the  bootblack  stand  and 
herded  him  into  the  roadster  to  drive  us.  Gumming* 
gave  the  order  for  North  Beach,  and  as  we  squirmed 
through  and  around  congested  downtown  traffic,  headed 
for  the  Stockton  Street  tunnel,  I  waited  for  the  lawyer 
to  begin.  When  it  came,  it  was  another  startling  ques 
tion, 

"Didn't  find  Skeels  in  the  south,  eh?" 

I  hadn't  thought  they'd  carry  their  watching  and 
trailing  of  us  so  far.  I  answered  that  question  with 
another, 

"When  did  you  see  or  hear  from  Worth  Gilbert 
last?" 

"Not  since  the  funeral,"  he  said  promptly,  "the 
day  before  the  funeral — a  week  ago  to-day,  to  be  exact. 
I  ran  down  to  make  my  inventory  then ;  as  adminis 
trator,  you  know." 

He  looked  at  me  so  significantly  that  I  echoed, 

"Yes,  I  know." 

"Do  you  ?  How  much  ?"  His  voice  was  hard  and 
dry;  it  didn't  sound  good  to  me. 

"See  here,"  I  put  it  to  him,  as  my  clever  little  driver 
dodged  in  and  out  through  the  narrow  lanes  between 
Pagoda-like  shops  of  Chinatown,  avoiding  the  steep 
hill  streets  by  a  diagonal  through  the  Italian  quarter  on 
Columbus  Avenue.  "If  there's  anything  you  think 
I  ought  to  be  told,  put  me  wise.  I  suppose  you  raised 
that  money  for  Worth — the  seventy-two  thousand  that 
was  lacking,  I  mean?" 

"I  did  not." 

I  turned  the  situation  over  and  over  in  my  mind, 
and  at  last  asked  cautiously, 


SEVEN  LOST  DAYS  161 

"Worth  did  get  the  money  to  make  up  the  full 
amount,  didn't  he?" 

We  had  swerved  again  to  the  north,  where  the 
Powell  car-line  curves  into  Bay  Street,  and  were  headed 
direct  for  the  wharves.  Cummings  watched  me  out 
of  the  corners  of  his  eyes,  a  look  that  bored  in  most 
unpleasantly,  while  he  cross  examined, 

"So  you  don't  know  where  he  raised  that  money — 
or  how — or  when  ?  You  don't  even  know  that  he  did 
raise  it?  Is  that  the  idea?" 

I  gave  him  look  for  look,  but  no  answer.  An  in 
decisive  slackening  of  the  machine,  and  Little  Pete 
asked, 

"Where  now,  sir?" 

"You  can  see  it,"  Cummings  pointed.  "The  tall 
building.  Hit  the  Embarcadero,  then  turn  to  your 
right;  a  block  to  Mason  Street." 

So  close  to  the  dock  that  ships  lay  broadside  before 
its  doors,  moored  to  the  piles  by  steel  cables,  the  West 
ern  Cereal  Company  plant  scattered  its  mills  and  ware 
houses  over  two  city  blocks.  Freight  trains  ran 
through  arcades  into  the  buildings  to  fetch  and  carry 
its  products ;  great  trucks,  some  gas  driven,  some  with 
four-  and  six-horse  teams,  loaded  sacks  or  containers 
that  shot  in  endless  streams  through  well  worn  chutes, 
or  emptied  raw  materials  that  would  shortly  be  break 
fast  foods  into  iron  conveyors  that  sucked  it  up  and 
whined  for  more.  It  was  a  place  of  aggressive  activity 
among  placid  surroundings,  this  plant  of  Dykeman's, 
for  its  setting  was  the  Italian  fisherman's  home  dis 
trict  ;  little  frame  shacks,  before  which  they  mended 
their  long,  brown  nets,  or  stretched  them  on  the  side 
walks  to  dry ;  Fisherman's  Wharf  and  its  lateen  rigged, 


162    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

gayly  painted  hulls,  was  under  the  factory  windows. 

We  pulled  up  before  the  door  of  a  building  separate 
from  any  of  the  mills  or  warehouses,  and  I  followed 
Cummings  through  a  corridor,  past  many  doors  of 
private  offices,  to  the  large  general  office.  Here  a 
young  man  at  a  desk  against  the  rail  lent  Cummings 
respectful  attention;  the  lawyer  asked  something  in  a 
low  tone,  and  was  answered, 

"Yes,  sir.     Waiting  for  you.     Go  right  through." 

Down  the  long  room  with  its  rattling  typewriters, 
its  buzz  of  clerks  and  salesmen  we  went.  Cummings 
was  a  little  ahead  of  me,  when  he  checked  a  moment  to 
bow  to  some  one  over  at  a  desk.  I  followed  his  glance. 
The  girl  he  had  spoken  to  turned  her  back  almost 
instantly  after  she  had  returned  his  greeting;  but  I 
couldn't  be  mistaken.  There  might  be  more  than  one 
figure  with  that  slim,  half  girlish  grace  about  it,  and 
other  hair  as  lustrously  blue-black,  but  none  could  be 
wound  around  a  small  head  quite  so  shapely,  carried 
with  so  blossomlike  a  toss.  It  was  Barbara  Wallace. 

So  this  was  where  her  job  was.  Strange  I  had  not 
known  this  fact  of  grave  importance.  I  went  on  past 
her  unconscious  back,  left  her  working  at  her  loose- 
leaf  ledgers,  beside  her  adding  machine,  my  mind  a 
whirl  of  ugly  conjecture.  Dykeman's  employee ;  that 
would  instantly  and  very  painfully  clear  up  a  score  of 
perplexing  questions.  Dykeman  would  need  no  de 
tectives  on  my  trail  to  tell  him  of  my  lack  of  success 
in  the  Skeels  chase.  Lord!  I  had  sent  her  as  concise 
a  report  as  I  could  make — to  her,  for  Worth.  I 
walked  on  stupidly.  In  front  of  the  last  door  in  the 
big  room,  Cummings  halted  and  spoke  low. 

"Boyne,  you  and  I  are  both  in  the  employ  of  the 


SEVEN  LOST  DAYS  163 

Van  Ness  Avenue  Bank.  We're  somewhat  similarly 
situated  in  another  quarter;  I'm  representing  the  Gil 
bert  estate,  and  you've  been  retained  by  Worth  Gil 
bert." 

I  grunted  some  sort  of  assent. 

"I  brought  you  here  to  listen  to  what  the  bank 
crowd  has  to  say,  but  when  they  get  done,  I've 
something  to  tell  you  about  that  young  employer  of 
yours.  You  listen  to  them — then  you  listen  to  me — 
and  you'll  know  where  you  stand." 

"I'll  talk  with  you  as  soon  as  I  get  through  here, 
Cummings." 

"Be  sure  you  do  that  little  thing,"  significantly,  and 
we  went  in. 


CHAPTER  XV 

AT  DYKEMAN'S  OFFICE 

WE  found  Whipple  with  Dykeman.  I  had  al 
ways  liked  the  president  of  the  Van  Ness 
Avenue  Bank  well  enough;  one  of  the  large,  smooth, 
amiable  sort,  not  built  to  withstand  stress  of  weather, 
apt  to  be  rather  helpless  before  it.  He  seemed  now 
mighty  upset  and  worried.  Dykeman  looked  at  me 
with  hard  eyes  that  searched  me,  but  on  the  whole  he 
was  friendly  in  his  greeting  and  inquiries  as  to  my 
health. 

While  I  was  getting  out  of  my  coat  and  stowing  it, 
making  a  great  deal  of  the  process  so  as  to  gain  time, 
I  saw  Cummings  was  exchanging  low  spoken  words 
with  the  two  of  them.  I  tried  to  keep  my  mind  on 
these  men  before  me  and  why  I  was  with  them,  but 
all  the  while  it  would  be  running  back  to  the  knock 
out  blow  of  seeing  that  girl  in  Dykeman's  place.  She 
was  double-crossing  Worth !  I  might  have  grinned  at 
the  idea  that  I'd  let  myself  be  fooled  by  a  pair  of  big, 
expressive,  wistful,  merry  black  eyes;  but  I  had  seen 
the  look  in  those  same  eyes  when  they  were  turned 
on  my  boy;  to  think  she'd  look  at  him  like  that,  and 
sell  him  out,  was  against  nature.  It  was  hurting  me 
beyond  all  reason. 

Whipple  asked  me  about  my  trip  south  as  though 
it  was  the  most  public  thing  in  the  world  and  he  knew 

164 


AT  DYKEMAN'S  OFFICE  165 

its  every  detail,  and  accepted  my  reply  that  I  couldn't 
take  one  man's  pay  and  report  to  another,  with, 

"Just  so,  Mr.  Boyne.  But  your  agency  is  retained 
— regularly,  year  by  year — by  our  bank.  And  our 
bank  has  given  over  none  of  its  rights — I  should  say 
duties — in  regard  to  the  Clayte  case.  We  stand  ready 
to  assist  any  one  whose  behavior  seems  to  us  that  of 
a  law-abiding  citizen.  We  don't  want  to  advance  any 
criminality.  We  can't  strike  hands  with  outlaws — " 

"Tell  him  about  the  suitcase,  Whipple,"  Dykeman 
broke  in  impatiently,  rather  spoiling  the  president's 
oratorical  effect.  "Tell  him  about  the  suitcase." 

The  suitcase !  Was  this  one  of  the  things  Barbara 
Wallace  had  let  out  to  her  employer?  She  could  have 
done  so.  She  knew  all  about  it. 

"One  moment,  please,"  I  snapped.  "I've  been  away 
for  a  week,  Mr.  Whipple.  I  don't  know  a  thing  of 
what  you're  talking  about.  Did  Captain  Gilbert  fail 
to  meet  his  engagement  with  you  Monday  morning?" 

Whipple  shook  his  head. 

"Mr.  Dykeman  wants  you  told  about  the  suitcase," 
he  said.  "I'd  like  to  have  Knapp  here  when  we  go 
into  that." 

Dykeman  picked  up  the  end  of  a  speaking-tube  and 
barked  into  it, 

"Send  those  men  in."  In  the  moment's  delay,  we 
all  sat  uneasily  mute.  Knapp  came  in  with  Anson. 
As  they  nodded  to  us  and  settled  into  chairs,  two  or 
three  others  joined  us.  Nothing  was  said  about  this 
filling  out  of  the  numbers,  but  to  me  it  meant  serious 
business,  with  Worth  Gilbert  its  motive. 

"Get  it  over,  can't  you?"  I  said,  looking  about  from 
one  to  the  other  of  the  men,  all  directors  in  the  bank. 


1 66   THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"I  understand  that  Captain  Gilbert  met  his  engage 
ment  with  you;  was  he  short  of  the  sum  agreed?" 
Again  Whipple  shook  his  head. 

"Captain  Gilbert  walked  into  the  bank  at  exactly 
ten  o'clock  Monday  morning.  The  uh — uh — unusual 
arrangement — contract,  to  call  it  so — that  we'd  made 
with  him  concerning  the  defalcation  would  have  ex 
pired  in  a  few  seconds,  and  I  think  I  may  say,"  he 
looked  around  at  the  others,  "that  we  should  not  have 
been  sorry  to  have  it  do  so.  But  he  brought  the  sum 
agreed  on." 

I  drew  a  great  sigh  of  relief.  Worth's  bargain 
was  complete;  he  was  done  with  these  men,  anyhow. 
I  was  half  out  of  my  chair  when  Whipple  said,  sharply 
for  him, 

"Sit  down,  Mr.  Boyne."  And  Dykeman  almost 
drowned  it  in  his, 

"Wait,  there,  Boyne!  We're  not  through  with 
you." 

"There's  more  to  tell,"  Whipple  continued.  "Cap 
tain  Gilbert  brought  that  eight  hundred  thousand  cash 
and  securities  in  a — er — in  a  very  strange  way." 

"What  d'you  mean,  strange  way?  airplane  or  sub 
marine?"  I  growled. 

"He  brought  it,"  Whipple's  words  marched  out  of 
him  like  a  solemn  procession,  "in  a  brown,  sole-leather 
suitcase." 

"With  brass  trimmings,"  Dykeman  supplemented, 
and  leaned  back  in  his  chair  with  an  audible  "Ah-h-h !" 
of  satisfaction. 

If  ever  a  poor  devil  was  flabbergasted,  it  was  the 
head  of  the  Boyne  agency  at  that  moment.  I  had  a 
fellow  feeling  for  that  Mazeppa  party  who  was  tied 


AT  DYKEMAN'S  OFFICE  167 

in  his  birthday  suit  to  the  back  of  a  wild  horse. 
Locoed  broncos  were  more  amenable  to  rein  than 
Worth  Gilbert.  So  that  was  why  he  wanted  that 
suitcase — "had  a  use  for  it,"  he'd  put  it;  insisted  on 
an  order  to  be  able  to  get  it  if  I  wasn't  at  my  office; 
wanted  it  to  shove  back  at  these  scary  bank  officials, 
with  his  own  money  for  the  payment  inside.  No 
wonder  Whipple  called  him  an  "outlaw" ! 

"Get  the  idea,  do  you,  Boyne?"  Anson  lunged  at 
me  in  his  ponderous  way.  "The  rest  of  us  thought 
'twas  a  poor  joke,  but  Knapp  and  Whipple  had  both 
seen  that  suitcase  before — and  recognized  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Knapp  quietly.  "It  chanced  I  saw  it 
go  through  the  door  that  last  day,  when  it  had  nearly 
a  million  of  our  money  in  it.  And  here  it  was — " 
his  voice  broke  off. 

"Certainly  startling,"  Cummings  spoke  directly  at 
me,  "for  them  to  see  it  come  back  in  Worth  Gilbert's 
hands,  with  the  same  kind  of  filling,  less  one  hundred 
and  eighty  seven  thousand  dollars.  Of  course,  I  didn't 
know  the  identity  of  the  suitcase  until  they'd  given 
Gilbert  his  receipt  and  he  was  gone." 

"Oh,  they  accepted  his  money?"  I  said,  and  every 
man  in  the  room  looked  sheepish,  except  Cummings 
who  didn't  need  to,  and  Dykeman  who  was  too  mad 
to.  He  shouted  at  me, 

"Yes,  we  took  it ;  and  you're  going  to  tell  us  where 
he  got  that  suitcase." 

"What  have  your  own  detectives — those  you  hired 
on  the  side — to  say  about  it?"  I  countered  on  him, 
and  saw  instantly  that  the  Whipple  end  of  the  crowd 
hadn't  known  of  Dykeman's  spotters  and  trailers. 

"Well,  why  not?"  Dykeman  shrilled.     "Why  not? 


1 68   THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

Who  wouldn't  shadow  that  crook?  One  hundred  and 
eighty  seven  thousand  dollars!  Worked  us  like 
suckers — come-ons — !"  he  choked  up  and  began  to 
cough.  Cummings  came  in  where  he  left  off. 

"See  here,  Boyne;  we  don't  want  to  antagonize  you. 
You've  said  from  the  first  that  this  crime  was  a  con 
spiracy — a  big  thing — directed  by  brains  on  the  out 
side.  Clayte  was  the  tool.  Whose  tool  was  he? 
That's  what  we  want  to  know."  And  Anson  trundled 
along, 

"These  men  who  have  been  in  the  war  get  a  con 
tempt  for  law,  there's  no  doubt  about  it.  Captain 
Gilbert  might — " 

"No  names!"  Whipple's  hand  went  up  in  protest. 
"No  accusations,  gentlemen,  please;  Mr.  Boyne — this 
is  a  dreadful  thing.  But,  really,  Captain  Gilbert's 
manner  was  very  strange.  I  might  say  he — " 

"Swaggered,"  supplied  Cummings  coolly  as  the 
president's  voice  lapsed. 

"Well,"  Whipple  accepted  it,  "he  swaggered  in  and 
put  it  all  over  us.  There  he  was,  a  man  fresh  from 
the  deathbed  of  a  suicide  father;  that  father's  funeral 
yet  to  occur.  I,  personally,  hadn't  the  heart  to  ques 
tion  him  or  raise  objections.  I  was  dazed." 

"Dazed,"  Dykeman  snapped  up  the  word  and  wor 
ried  it,  as  a  dog  worries  a  bone.  "Of  course,  we 
were  all  dazed.  It  was  so  open,  so  shameless — that's 
why  he  got  by  with  it.  Making  use  of  his  position 
as  heir,  less  than  forty  eight  hours  after  his  father 
was  shot." 

"After  his  father  shot  himself,"  Whipple's  lowered 
tone  was  a  plea.  "After  his  father  shot  himself." 

"Huh!"  snorted  Dykeman.     "If  a  man  shoots  him- 


AT  DYKEMAN'S  OFFICE  169 

self,  he's  been  shot,  hasn't  he?  Hell!  What's  the 
use  of  whipping  the  devil  round  the  stump  that  way? 
Boyne,  you  can  stand  with  us,  or  you  can  fight  us." 

"Boyne's  with  us — of  course  he's  with  us,"  Whipple 
broke  in,  his  words  a  good  deal  more  confident  than 
his  tone  or  the  look  of  his  face. 

"Well,  then,"  Dykeman  ground  out,  "when  our 
thief  of  a  teller  splits  that  one  hundred  and  eighty 
seven  thousand  with  his  man  Gilbert — shut  up,  Whip- 
pie — shut  up!  You  can't  stop  me — we're  going  to 
know  about  it.  We'll  get  them  both  then,  and  send 
them  across.  And  we'll  recover  one  hundred  and 
eighty  seven  thousand  dollars  that  belongs  to  the  Van 
Ness  Avenue  bank." 

"Good  night!"  I  got  to  my  feet.  "This  lets  me 
out.  I  can't  deal  with  men  who  make  a  scrap  of 
paper  of  their  contracts  as  quick  as  you  gentlemen 
do." 

"Stop,  Boyne — you  haven't  got  it  all,"  Dykeman 
ordered  me. 

"Yes,  wait,  Mr.  Boyne,"  Whipple  came  in.  "You 
haven't  a  full  understanding  of  the  enormity  of  this 
young  man's  action.  Mr.  Cummings  has  something 
to  tell  you  which,  I  think,  will — " 

"Nothing  Mr.  Cummings  can  say,"  I  shut  them  off, 
"will  alter  the  fact  that  I  am  employed  by  Captain 
Worth  Gilbert  at  your  recommendation — at  your  own 
recommendation — that  I  have  been  away  more  than  a 
week  on  his  business,  and  have  not  yet  had  an  opportu 
nity  to  report  to  him  personally.  When  I've  seen  him, 
I'll  be  ready  to  talk  to  you." 

"You'll  talk  now  or  never — "  Dykeman's  shrill 
threat  was  interrupted  by  the  shriller  bell  of  the  tele- 


1 70    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

phone.  He  yanked  the  instrument  to  him,  and  the 
"Hello!"  he  cried  into  it  had  the  snap  of  an  oath.  He 
looked  up  and  shoved  the  thing  in  my  direction.  "Call 
ing  for  you,  Boyne,"  he  snarled. 

There  was  deathly  stillness  in  the  room,  so  that  the 
whir  of  the  great  stones  in  the  mill  came  to  us  insis 
tently.  I  stood  there,  they  all  watching  me,  and  spoke 
into  the  transmitter. 

"This  is  Boyne." 

"Hold  the  receiver  Close  to  your  ear  so  it  won't 
leak  words."  The  warning  wasn't  needed;  I  thought 
I  knew  the  voice.  "Press  the  transmitter  close  to 
your  chest.  Listen — don't  talk;  don't  say  a  word  in 
reply  to  me.  I'm  in  the  telephone  booth  outside.  I 
must  see  you  just  as  soon  as  I  can.  I'll  be  at  the 
Little  Italy  restaurant — you  know,  don't  you  ?  on  Fish 
erman's  Wharf — in  ten  minutes.  If  you  can  come,  and 
alone,  find  me  there.  I'll  wait  an  hour.  If  you  can't 
come  now,  you  must  see  me  this  evening  after  working 
hours." 

"I'll  come  now,"  I  raised  the  transmitter  to  say 
and  quickly  over  the  wire  came  the  answer, 

"I  told  you  not  to  speak — in  there!  This  is  Barbara 
Wallace." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

A  LUNCHEON 

I  WENT  away  from  there. 
Looking  about  me,  I  had  guessed  that  pretty 
much  every  man  in  the  room  believed  that  it  was 
Worth  Gilbert  with  whom  I  had  been  talking  over  the 
phone.  Dykeman's  trailers  would  be  right  behind  me. 
Yet  to  the  last,  Whipple  and  his  crowd  were  offering 
me  the  return  trip  end  of  my  ticket  with  them;  if  I 
would  come  back  and  be  good,  even  now,  all  would  be 
forgiven.  I  sized  up  the  situation  briefly  and  took  my 
plunge,  shutting  the  door  after  me,  glancing  across 
the  long  room  to  see  that  Barbara  Wallace's  desk  was 
deserted.  Nobody  followed  me  from  the  room  I  had 
just  left.  I  walked  quickly  to  the  outer  door. 

Little  Pete  switched  on  his  engine  as  I  leaped  into 
the  car.  My  "Let  her  go!"  wasn't  needed  to  make 
him  throw  in  his  clutch,  and  give  me  a  flying  start 
straight  ahead  down  the  broad  plank  way  of  the  Em- 
barcadero.  Looking  back  as  we  hit  the  belt-line 
tracks,  I  saw  a  email  car  with  two  men  in  it,  shoot 
out  from  one  of  the  wide  doorways  of  the  plant ;  but 
as  we  rounded  the  cliff-like  side  of  Telegraph  Hill, 
my  view  of  them  was  cut  off.  Things  had  come  for 
me  thick  and  fast.  I  felt  pretty  well  balled  up.  But 
the  girl  had  used  secrecy  in  appointing  this  interview ; 
till  I  could  see  further  into  the  thing,  it  was  anyhow 
a  safe  bet  to  drop  them. 

171 


172    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Pete,"  I  said,  "lose  that  car  behind  us.  Only  ten 
minutes  to  slip  them  and  land  me  at  Fisherman's 
Warf.  Show  me  what-for." 

He  grinned.  Between  Montgomery  and  the  bay, 
north  of  California  Street,  there  are  many  narrow 
byways,  crowded  with  the  heavy  traffic  of  hucksters 
and  vegetable  men,  a  section  devoted  to  the  commis 
sion  business.  Into  its  congestion  Pete  dove  with  a 
weasel  instinct  for  finding  the  right  holes  to  slip 
through,  the  alleys  that  might  be  navigated  in  safety; 
in  less  than  the  ten  minutes  I'd  specified,  we  were  free 
again  on  Columbus  Avenue,  pursuit  lost,  and  headed 
back  for  the  restaurant  on  the  wharf. 

"Boss,"  Little  Pete  was  hoarse  with  the  excitement 
he  loved,  as  he  laid  the  roadster  alongside  the  Little 
Italy,  "was  it  on  the  level,  what  you  fed  the  law 
yer  guy?  Ain't  you  wise  to  where  Captain  Gilbert 
is?  I've  saw  him  frequent  since  you've  been 
gone." 

"How  many  times  is  'frequent,'  Pete?"  I  asked. 
"And  when  did  the  last  'frequent'  happen?" 

"Twice,"  sulkily.  I'd  wounded  his  pride  by  not 
taking  him  seriously;  but  he  added  as  I  jumped  down 
from  the  machine.  "I  druv  him  up  on  the  hill,  'round 
the  place  where  you  an'  him — an'  her — went  that 
day." 

Pete  didn't  need  to  use  Barbara  Wallace's  jiame. 
The  way  he  salaamed  to  the  pronoun  was  enough ;  the 
swath  that  girl  cut  evidently  reached  from  the  cradle 
to  the  grave,  with  this  monkey  grinning  at  one  end, 
and  me  doddering  along  at  the  other. 

I  gave  a  moment  to  questioning  Pete,  found  out  all 
he  knew,  and  went  into  the  restaurant,  wondering  what 


A  LUNCHEON  173 

under  heaven  Barbara  Wallace  would  say  to  me  or  ask 
me. 

The  Little  Italy  restaurant  is  not  so  bad  a  place 
for  luncheon.  If  one  likes  any  eatables  the  western 
seas  produce,  I  heartily  recommend  it.  Where  fish 
are  unloaded  from  the  smacks  by  the  ton,  fish  are  sure 
to  be  in  evidence,  but  they  are  nice,  fresh  fish,  and 
look  good  enough  to  eat.  And  the  Little  Italy  is 
clean,  with  white  oil-clothed  tables  and  a  view  from  its 
broad  windows  that  down-town  restaurants  would 
double  their  rent  to  get. 

Just  now  it  was  full  of  noisy  patrons,  foreigners, 
mostly;  people  too  busy  eating  to  notice  whether  I 
carried  my  head  on  my  shoulders  or  under  my  arm. 

In  a  far  corner,  Barbara  Wallace's  eyes  were  on  me 
from  the  minute  I  came  within  her  sight.  She  had 
ordered  clams  for  two,  mostly,  I  thought,  to  defend 
the  privacy  of  our  talk  from  the  interruptions  of  a 
waiter,  and  I  was  hardly  in  my  chair  before  she  burst 
out, 

"Where's  Worth?  Why  wasn't  he  in  that  office  to 
defend  himself  against  what  they're  hinting?" 

"I  suppose,"  I  said  dryly,  "because  he  wasn't  given 
an  invitation  to  attend.  You  ought  to  know  why. 
You  work  for  Dykeman." 

"I  work  for  Dykeman?"  she  repeated  after  me  in 
a  bewildered  tone.  "I'm  bookkeeper  in  the  Western 
Cereal  Company's  employ,  if  that's  what  you  mean. 
You  understood  so  from  the  first." 

"You  know  I  didn't,"  I  reproached  her  hotly.  "Do 
you  think  I'd  have  let  you  on  the  inside  of  this  case 
if  I'd  known  it  was  a  pipe  line  direct  to  Dykeman?" 

And  on  the  instant  I  spoke  there  came  to  me  a 


174    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

remembrance  of  her  saying  that  Sunday  morning  as 
we  pulled  up  before  the  St.  Dunstan  that  she  went  past 
the  place  on  the  street  car  every  day  getting  to  her 
work  at  the  Western  Cereal  Company.  Sloppy  of  me 
not  to  have  paid  better  attention ;  I  knew  vaguely  that 
Dykeman  was  in  one  of  the  North  Beach  mills. 

"Fifty-fifty,  Barbara,"  I  conceded.  "I  should  have 
known — made  it  my  business  to  learn.  And  Dyke 
man  has  questioned  you — " 

"He  has  not!"  indignantly.  "I  don't  suppose  he 
knows  Worth  and  I  are  acquainted."  I  could  have 
smiled  at  that.  There  were  detectives'  reports  in  Dyke- 
man's  desk  that  recorded  date,  hour  and  duration  of 
every  meeting  this  girl  had  had  with  Worth  and  with 
myself.  Besides,  Cummings  knew.  It  must  have 
been  through  Cummings  that  she  learned  what  was 
about  to  take  place  in  Dykeman's  private  office.  What 
had  she  told  Cummings? 

I  was  ready  to  blurt  out  the  question,  when  she 
fumbled  in  her  bag  with  little,  shaking  hands,  drew 
out  and  passed  to  me  unopened  the  envelope  addressed 
to  Worth,  with  my  detailed  report  of  the  Skeels  chase. 

"I  did  my  best  to  deliver  it,"  she  steadied  her  voice 
as  she  spoke.  "He  wasn't  at  the  Palace.  He  wasn't 
at  Santa  Ysobel.  He  didn't  communicate  with  me 
here." 

My  edifice  of  suspicion  of  Barbara  Wallace  crum 
bled.  Cummings  had  not  learned  through  her  that  I 
was  unsuccessful  in  the  south;  nor  had  she  spilled  a 
word  to  him  that  she  shouldn't,  or  they'd  have  had 
the  dope  on  where  Worth  had  found  that  suitcase, 
and  thrown  it  at  me  quick. 

"Barbara,"  I  said,  "will  you  accept  my  apologies?" 


A  LUNCHEON  175 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  smiled  vaguely.  "I  don't  know  what 
you're  apologizing  for,  but  it  doesn't  matter.  I  hoped 
you  would  bring  me  news  of  Worth — of  where  he  is-." 

"When  did  you  see  him  last?" 

"On  the  day  of  the  funeral.  I  hardly  got  to  speak 
to  him." 

Little  Pete's  news  was  slightly  later.  He'd  taken 
Worth  up  to  the  Gold  Nugget  and  dropped  him  there. 
Thursday,  Worth  was  at  the  Nugget  for  more  than 
an  hour.  On  both  occasions,  Pete  was  told  to  slip 
the  trailers,  and  did.  That  meant  that  Worth  was 
working  on  the  Clayte  case — or  thought  he  was.  I 
told  her  of  this. 

"Yes — Oh,  yes,"  she  repeated  listlessly.  "But 
where  is  he  now?  And  awful  things — things  like 
this  meeting — coming  up." 

"What  besides  this  meeting?" 

"At  Santa  Ysobel." 

"What  ?  Things  that  have  happened  since  the  boy's 
gone?  You  couldn't  get  much  idea  of  the  lay  of  the 
land  when  you  were  down  there  Wednesday,  could 
you?" 

"Oh,  but  I  could — I  did,"  earnestly.  "Of  course 
it  was  a  large  funeral;  it  seemed  to  me  I  saw  every 
body  I'd  ever  known.  At  a  time  like  that,  nothing 
would  be  said  openly,  but  the  drift  was  all  in  one 
direction.  They  couldn't  understand  Worth,  and  so 
nearly  every  one  who  spoke  of  him,  picked  at  him, 
trying  to  understand  him.  Mrs.  Thornhill's  cook  was 
already  telling  that  Worth  had  quarreled  with  his 
father  and  demanded  money.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if 
by  now  Santa  Ysobel's  set  the  exact  hour  of  the  quar 
rel." 


1 76    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Me  for  down  there  as  quick  as  I  can,"  I  muttered, 
and  Barbara,  facing  me  sympathetically,  offered, 

"I've  a  letter  from  Skeet  Thornhill,"  she  groped  in 
her  bag  again,  mumbling  as  women  do  when  they're 
hunting  for  a  thing,  "It  came  this  morning  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Thornhill's  no  better — worse,  I  judge  .  .  .  Oh,  here  it 
is,"  and  she  pulled  out  a  couple  of  closely  scribbled 
sheets.  "The  child  writes  a  wild  hand,"  she  apolo 
gized,  as  she  passed  these  over. 

The  flapper  dashed  into  her  letter  with  a  sort  of 
incoherent  squeal.  The  carnival  ball  was  only  four 
days  off.  Everybody  was  already  dead  on  his,  her  or 
its  feet.  The  decorations  they'd  planned  were  enough 
to  kill  a  horse — let  alone  getting  up  costumes.  "As 
usual,  everything  seems  to  be  going  to  the  devil  here," 
she  went  on;  "Got  a  cannery  girl  elected  festival 
queen  this  time.  Ina's  furious,  of  course.  Moms  had 
a  letter  from  her  that  singed  the  envelope;  but  I  sort 
of  enjoy  seeing  the  cannery  district  break  in. 
They've  got  the  money  these  days." 

Nothing  here  to  my  purpose.  Barbara  reached  for 
ward  and  turned  the  sheet  for  me,  and  I  saw  Worth 
Gilbert's  name  half  way  down  it. 

"Doctor  Bowman  is  an  old  hell-cat,  and  I  hate  him." 
Skeet  made  her  points  with  a  fine  simplicity.  "Since 
mother's  sick,  he  comes  here  every  day,  though  what 
he  does  but  sit  and  shoot  off  his  mouth  and  get  her  all 
worked  up  is  more  than  I  can  see.  Yesterday  I  was 
in  the  room  when  he  was  there,  and  he  got  to  talking 
about  Worth — the  meanest,  lowest-down,  hinting  talk 
you  ever  heard!  Said  Worth  got  a  lot  of  money 
when  his  father  died,  and  I  flared  up  and  said  what  of 
it?  Did  he  think  Mr.  Gilbert  ought  to  have  left  it  to 


A  LUNCHEON  177 

him?  That  hit  him,  because  he  and  Mr.  Gilbert  used 
to  be  good  friends,  and  he  and  Worth  aren't.  I  sassed 
him,  and  he  got  so  mad  that  just  as  he  was  leaving, 
he  hollered  at  me  that  I  better  ask  Worth  Gilbert 
where  he  was  at  the  hour  his  father  was  shot.  Now, 
what  do  you  know  about  that?  That  man  is  spread 
ing  stories.  A  doctor  can  set  them  going.  He's 
making  his  messy  old  calls  on  people  all  day,  and  they, 
poor  fish-hounds,  believe  everything  he  says.  Though 
mother  didn't.  After  he  was  gone,  she  just  lay  there  in 
her  bed  and  said  over  and  over  that  it  was  a  lie,  a 
foolish,  dangerous  lie!  Poor  mumsie,  she's  so  nerv 
ous  that  when  the  grocer's  truck  had  a  blow-out  down 
in  the  drive,  she  nearly  went  into  hysterics — cried  and 
carried  on,  something  about  it's  being  'the  shot.'  I 
suppose  she  meant  the  one  when  Mr.  Gilbert  killed, 
himself.  Wasn't  that  queer?  Any  loud  noise  of  the 
sort  sets  her  off  that  way.  She  lies  and  listens,  and 
listens  and  mutters  to  herself.  It  scares  me."  She 
closed  with,  "Please  don't  break  your  promise  to  be 
here  through  this  infernal  Bloss.  Fes." 

"Good  advice,  that  last,"  I  said  slowly,  as  I  laid  the 
letter  on  the  table,  keeping  a  hand  on  it.  "You'll  do 
that,  won't  you,  Barbara?" 

"I  had  intended  to.  I  was  given  leave  from  this 
afternoon.  But — well — I'd  thought  it  over,  and  almost 
made  up  my  mind  to  go  back  to  my  desk." 

Barbara  Wallace  uncertain,  halting  between  two 
courses  of  action!  What  did  it  mean? 

"See  here,  Barbara ;  this  isn't  a  time  for  Worth  Gil 
bert's  friends  to  slacken  on  him." 

"I  hadn't  slackened,"  she  said  very  low.  And  left  it 
for  me  to  remember  that  Worth  apparently  had. 


178    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Then  you're  needed  at  Santa  Ysobel,"  I  urged. 

"But  you're  going,  aren't  you,  Mr.  Boyne?" 

"Yes.  As  soon  as  I  can  get  off.  That  doesn't  keep 
you  from  being  needed.  Worth's  one  of  the  most 
efficiently  impossible  young  men  I  ever  tried  to  handle. 
Maybe  he's  not  any  fuller  of  shocks  than  any  other 
live  wire,  but  he  sure  does  manage  to  plant  them  where 
they'll  do  the  most  harm.  Cummings,  Dykeman — and 
this  Dr.  Bowman  down  there;  active  enemies." 

"They  can't  hurt  Worth  Gilbert — all  of  them  to 
gether!" 

"Wait  a  minute.  I'm  going  to  Santa  Ysobel  to  find 
the  murderer  of  Thomas  Gilbert.  That  means  a  stir 
ring  to  the  depths  of  that  little  town.  This  underneath- 
the-surface  combustion  will  get  poked  into  a  flame — 
she's  going  to  burst  out,  and  somebody's  going  to  get 
burned.  WTe  don't  want  that  to  be  Worth,  Barbara." 

"No.  But  what  can  I  do — what  influence  have  I 
with  him — "  she  was  beginning,  but  I  broke  in  on  her. 

"Barbara,  you  and  I  are  going  to  find  the  real  mur 
derer,  before  the  Cummings-Dykeman  bunch  discover 
a  way  into  and  out  of  that  bolted  study.  Those  people 
want  to  see  Worth  in  jail." 

There  was  a  long  pause  while  she  faced  me,  the  rich 
color  failing  a  little  in  her  cheeks. 

"I  see,"  speaking  slowly,  studying  each  word.  "And 
as  long  as  we  didn't  find  out  how  to  enter  and  leave  the 
study,  we  have  no  way  of  knowing  how  hard  or  how 
easy  it's  going  to  be  for  them  to  find  it  out.  We — " 
her  voice  still  lower — "we  can't  tell  if  they  already 
know  it  or  not." 

"Yes  we  can,"  I  leaned  forward  to  say.     "The  min- 


A  LUNCHEON  179 

ute  they  know  that — Worth  Gilbert  will  be  charged 
with  murder." 

I  hit  hard  enough  that  time  to  bring  blood,  but  she 
bled  inwardly,  sitting  there  staring  at  me,  quite  pale, 
finally  faltering, 

"Well — I  can't  stop  to  think  of  his  having  followed 
Ina  Vandeman  south — on  her  wedding  trip — if  he 
needs  me — and  I  can  help — I  must — "  she  broke  down 
completely,  and  I  sat  there  feeling  big-footed  and  blun 
dering  at  this  revelation  of  what  it  was  that  had  put 
that  clear,  logical  mind  of  hers  off  the  track,  left  her 
confused,  groping,  just  a  girl,  timid,  distrustful  of  her 
own  judgment  where  her  heart  was  concerned. 

"Was  that  it  all  the  time?"  I  asked.  "Well,  take  it 
from  me,  Worth's  done  nothing  of  the  sort.  He's 
been  playing  detective,  not  chasing  off  after  some  other 
man's  bride." 

Up  came  the  color  to  her  cheeks,  she  reached  that 
mite  of  a  hand  across  to  shake  on  the  bargain  with, 

"I'll  go  straight  down  this  evening.  You'll  find  me 
in  Santa  Ysobel  when  you  come,  Mr.  Boyne." 

"At  the  Thornhills' ?"  It  might  be  handy  to  have 
her  there ;  but  she  shook  her  head,  looking  a  little  self- 
conscious. 

"I'm  taking  that  spare  room  at  Sarah  Capehart's. 
Skeet  wanted  me,  and  I  have  an  invitation  from  Laura 
Bowman;  but  if — well,  seeing  that  this  investigation  is 
going  to  cover  all  that  neighborhood,  I  thought  I'd 
rather  be  with  Sarah." 

The  level-headed  little  thing!  Pete  and  I  had  the 
pleasure  of  taking  her  out  to  her  home  where  she  had 
her  packing  to  attend  to.  On  the  way  she  spoke  of  an 


i8o   THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

engagement  with  Cummings  for  the  theater  Saturday 
night. 

"And  instead,  I  suppose  I  shall  be  at  the  carnival 
ball.  Shall  I  tell  him  that  in  my  note,  Mr.  Boyne? 
Is  it  all  right  to  let  him  know?" 

"It's  all  right,"  I  assented.  "You  can  bet  Cummings 
is  due  down  there  as  soon  as  Worth  shows  up;  and 
that  must  be  soon,  now." 

"Yes,"  Barbara  agreed.  Her  face  clouded  a  little. 
"You  noticed  in  Skeet's  letter  that  they're  expecting 
Ina  to-morrow." 

Poor  child — she  couldn't  get  away  from  it.  I  patted 
the  hand  I  had  taken  to  say  good-by  and  assured  her 
again, 

"Worth  Gilbert  hasn't  been  in  the  south.  I  won 
der  at  you,  Barbara.  You're  so  clear  headed  about 
everything  else — don't  you  see  that  that  would  be  im 
possible?" 

Then  I  drove  back  to  my  office,  to  find  lying  on  my 
desk  a  telegram  from  the  young  man,  dated  at  Los 
Angeles,  requesting  me  to  meet  him  at  Santa  Ysobel 
the  following  evening! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

CLEANSING  FIRES 

WEDNESDAY  evening  I  pulled  into  a  different 
Santa  Ysobel:  lanterns  strung  across  between 
the  buildings,  bunting  and  branches  of  bloom  every 
where,  streets  alive  with  people  milling  around,  and 
cars  piled  high  with  decorative  material,  crowded  with 
the  decorators.  The  carnival  of  blossoms  was  only 
three  days  ahead. 

At  Bill  Capehart's  garage  they  told  me  Barbara  was 
out  somewhere  with  the  crowd ;  and  a  few  minutes 
later  on  Main  Street,  I  met  her  in  a  Ford  truck.  Skeet 
Thornhill  was  at  the  wheel,  adding  to  the  general  risk 
of  life  and  limb  on  Santa  Ysobel  streets,  carrying  a 
half  a  dozen  or  more  other  young  things  tucked  away 
behind.  Both  girls  shouted  at  me;  they  were  going 
somewhere  for  something  and  would  see  me  later. 

Getting  down  toward  the  Gilbert  place,  just  beyond 
the  corner,  I  flushed  from  the  shadows  of  the  pepper 
trees  a  bird  I  knew  to  be  one  of  Dykeman's  operatives. 
Watching  his  carefully  careless  progress  on  past  the 
Gilbert  lawn,  then  the  Vandeman  grounds,  my  eye  was 
led  to  a  pair  who  approached  across  the  green  from 
the  direction  of  the  bungalow.  No  mistaking  the 
woman;  even  at  this  distance,  height  and  the  clean 
sweep  of  her  walk,  told  me  that  this  was  the  bride,  Ina 
Vandeman.  And  the  man  strolling  beside  her — had 

181 


182    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

he  come  with  her  from  the  house,  or  joined  her  on  the 
cross-cut  path? — could  that  be  Worth  Gilbert? 

I  sat  in  the  roadster  and  gaped.  The  evening  light 
— behind  them,  and  dim  enough  at  best — made  their 
countenances  fairly  indistinguishable.  At  the  gap  in 
the  hedge,  they  paused,  and  Mrs.  Vandeman  reached 
out,  broke  off  a  flower  to  fasten  in  his  buttonhole, 
looking  up  into  his  face,  talking  quickly.  Old  stuff — 
but  always  good  reliable  old  stuff.  Then  Worth  saw 
me  and  hailed,  "Hello,  Jerry !"  But  he  did  not  come 
to  me,  and  I  swung  out  of  the  machine  to  the  side 
walk. 

I  heard  the  sobbing  of  the  Ford  truck;  it  went  by, 
missing  my  runningboard  by  an  inch,  stopped  at  Van- 
deman's  gate  and  Skeet  discharged  her  cargo  of  clamor 
to  stream  across  the  sidewalk  and  up  toward  the  bun 
galow.  I  saw  Barbara,  in  the  midst  of  the  moving 
figures,  suddenly  stop,  knew  she  had  seen  the  two  over 
there,  and  crossed  to  her,  with  a  cheerful, 

"He's  here  all  right." 

"Oh,  yes,"  not  looking  toward  the  gap  in  the  hedge, 
or  at  me.  "He  came  on  the  same  train  with — with 
them." 

Then  some  one  from  the  porch  yowled  reproachfully 
for  her  to  fetch  those  banners  pronto,  and  with  a  little 
catching  of  breath,  she  ran  on  up  the  walk. 

I  turned  back.  Worth  and  Ina  had  moved  on. 
Bronson  Vandeman,  well  groomed,  dressed  as  though 
he  had  just  come  in  off  the  golf  links,  his  English 
shoes  and  loud  patterned  stockings  differentiating  him 
from  the  crude  outdoor  man  of  the  Coast,  had  joined 
them  on  the  Gilbert  lawn;  his  genial  greeting  to  me 
let  his  bride  get  by  with  a  mere  bow,  turning  at  once 


CLEANSING  FIRES  183 

back  to  her  house  by  the  front  walk.  But  rather  to  my 
annoyance,  Vandeman  came  bounding  up  the  steps 
after  us.  I  judged  Worth  must  have  invited  him. 

Chung  carried  my  suitcase  upstairs,  and  lingered  a 
minute  in  my  room.  I'll  swear  it  wasn't  merely  to  get 
the  tip  for  which  he  thanked  me,  but  with  the  idea  of 
showing  me  in  some  recondite,  Oriental  fashion  that  he 
was  glad  I'd  come.  This  interested  me.  The  people 
who  were  glad  to  have  me  in  Santa  Ysobel  at  this  time 
belonged  on  the  clean  side  of  my  ledger.  Then  I  went 
downstairs  to  find  Vandeman  still  in  the  living  room, 
sprawled  at  ease  beside  the  window,  looking  round  with 
a  display  of  his  fine  teeth,  reaching  a  hand  to  pull  in 
the  chair  Worth  set  for  me. 

"Well,  Jerry,"  that  young  man  prompted,  indicating 
by  a  careless  gesture  the  smokers'  tray  on  the  table  be 
side  me,  "there  is  time  before  dinner  for  the  tale  of 
your  exploits.  How's  my  friend  Steve?" 

I  began  to  select  a  cigar,  and  said  shortly, 

"It's  all  in  reports  waiting  for  you  at  my  office." 

"Yes."  Worth  ignored  my  irritation.  "Tell  it. 
What'd  you  do  down  south?" 

"Just  back  from  the  south  yourself,  aren't  you?"  I 
countered. 

"Sure,"  airily.  "But  I  wasn't  there  to  butt  in  on 
your  game.  Did  you  find  that  Skeels  was  Clayte?" 

I  merely  looked  over  the  flame  of  my  match  at  that 
small-town  society  man,  smiling  back  at  me  with  a 
show  of  polite  interest. 

"Go  on,"  Worth  interpreted.  "Vandeman  knows  all 
about  it.  I  tried  to  sell  him  a  few  shares  of  stock  in 
the  suitcase,  so  he'll  take  an  interest  in  the  game ;  but 
he's  too  much  the  tight-wad  to  buy." 


184    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Oh,  no,"  deprecated  Vandeman.  "Just  no  gambler ; 
hate  to  take  a  chance."  He  ran  his  fingers  through 
his  hair,  tossing  it  up  with  a  gesture  I  had  noticed 
when  he  came  back  from  the  dance  at  Tait's. 

"All  right — apology  accepted,"  Worth  nodded. 
"Anyway,  you  didn't.  Well,  Jerry?" 

Vandeman  waited  a  moment  with  natural  curiosity, 
then,  as  I  still  said  nothing,  giving  my  attention  to 
my  smoke,  moved  reluctantly  to  rise,  saying, 

"That  means  I'd  better  chase  along  and  let  you  two 
talk  business." 

"No.     Sit  tight,"  from  Worth. 

I  was  mad  clear  through,  and  disturbed  and  appre 
hensive,  too.  I  managed  a  brief,  dry  statement  of  the 
outcome  in  the  south.  Worth  hailed  it  with, 

"Skeels  lurks  in  the  jungle!  Life  still  holds  a  grain 
of  interest." 

"Why  the  devil  couldn't  you  keep  me  advised  of 
your  movements?"  I  demanded. 

"Dykeman's  hounds,"  he  grinned.  "Had  them 
guessing.  They'd  have  picked  me  up  if  I'd  gone  to 
your  office." 

"You  could  have  written  or  wired.  They've  picked 
you  up  anyway,"  I  grunted.  "One's  on  the  job  now. 
Saw  him  as  I  came  in." 

"Eh?  What's  that?"  cried  Vandeman,  a  man  snoop 
ing  in  the  shrubbery  outside  getting  more  attention 
from  him  than  one  dodging  pursuit  three  hundred 
miles  away.  "What  do  you  mean,  hounds?"  and  when 
he  had  heard  the  explanation  of  Dykeman's  trailers, 
"I  call  that  intolerable!" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know."  Worth  reached  over  my 
shoulder  for  a  cigarette.  "Lose  'em  whenever  I  like." 


CLEANSING  FIRES  185 

I  wasn't  so  certain.  There  were  men  in  my  employ 
he  couldn't  shake.  Perhaps  those  reports  in  Dyke- 
man's  desk  might  have  offered  some  surprises  to  this 
cock-sure  lad.  My  exasperation  at  Worth  mounted  as 
I  listened  to  Vandeman  talking. 

"Those  bank  people  should  do  one  thing  or  another," 
he  gave  his  opinion.  "Just  because  you  got  gay  with 
them  and  handed  them  their  payment  in  the  suitcase 
it  left  in,  they've  no  right  to  have  you  watched  like 
a  criminal.  In  a  small  town  like  this,  such  a  thing 
will  ruin  a  man's  standing." 

"If  he  has  any  standing,"  Worth  laughed. 

"See  here,"  Vandeman's  smile  was  persuasive. 
"Don't  let  what  I  said  out  in  front  embitter  you." 

"I'll  try  not  to." 

"Mr.  Boyne" — Vandeman  missed  the  sarcasm — 
"when  I  got  back  to  this  town  to-day,  what  do  you 
suppose  I  found?  The  story  going  around  that  a 
quarrel  with  Worth,  over  money,  drove  his  father  to 
take  his  own  life." 

"That's  my  business  here,"  I  nodded.  And  when 
he  looked  his  surprise,  "To  stop  such  stories." 

He  stared  at  me,  frankly  puzzled  for  a  moment,  then 
said, 

"Well,  of  course  you  know,  and  I  know,  that  they're 
scurrilous  lies;  but  just  how  will  you  stop  them?" 

I  had  intended  my  remark  to  stand  as  it  was;  but 
Worth  rilled  in  the  pause  after  Vandeman's  question 
with, 

"Jerry's  here  to  get  the  truth  of  my  father's  mur 
der,  Bronse." 

"Murder?"  The  mere  naked  word  seemed  to  shock 
Vandeman.  His  sort  clothe  and  pad  everything — even 


186    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

their  speech.  "I  didn't  know  any  one  entertained  the 
idea  your  father  was  murdered.  He  couldn't  have 
been — not  the  way  it  happened." 

"Nevertheless  we  think  he  was." 

"Oh,  but  Boyne — start  a  thing  like  that,  and  think 
of  the  talk  it'll  make !  They'll  commence  at  once  say 
ing  that  there  was  nobody  but  Worth  to  profit  by  his 
father's  death." 

"Don't  worry,  Mr.  Vandeman."  He  made  me  hot. 
"We  know  where  to  dig  up  the  motive  for  the  crime." 

"You  mean  the  diaries?"  Worth's  voice  sounded 
unbelievably  from  beside  me.  "Nothing  doing  there, 
Jerry.  I've  burned  them." 

I  sat  and  choked  down  the  swears.  Yet,  looking 
back  on  it,  I  saw  plainly  that  Jerry  Boyne  was  the  man 
who  deserved  kicking.  I  ought  never  to  have  left 
them  with  him. 

"You  read  them  and  burned  them?"  said  Vandeman. 

"Burned  them  without  reading,"  Worth's  impatient 
tones  corrected. 

"Without  reading!"  the  other  echoed,  startled. 
Then,  after  a  long  pause,  "Oh — I  say — pardon  me,  but 
— but  ought  that  to  have  been  done?  Surely  not. 
Worth — if  you'd  read  your  father's  diaries  for  the  past 
few  years — I  don't  believe  you'd  have  a  doubt  that  he 
committed  suicide — not  a  doubt." 

Worth  sat  there  mute.  Myself,  I  was  rather  curious 
as  to  what  Vandeman  would  say;  I  had  read  much  in 
those  diaries.  But  when  it  came,  it  was  the  same  old 
line  of  talk  one  hears  when  there's  a  suicide:  Gilbert 
was  a  lonely  man;  his  life  hadn't  been  happy;  he  cut 
himself  off  from  people  too  much.  Vandeman  said 
that  of  late  he  believed  he  was  pretty  nearly  the  only 


CLEANSING  FIRES  187 

intimate  the  dead  man  had.  This  last  gave  him  an 
interest  in  my  eyes.  I  broke  in  on  his  generalities  to 
ask  him  bluntly  why  he  was  so  certain  the  death  was 
suicide. 

"Mr.  Gilbert  was  breaking  up;  had  been  for  two 
years  or  more.  Worth's  been  away;  he's  not  seen  it; 
but  I  can  tell  you,  Boyne,  his  father's  mind  was 
affected." 

Worth  let  that  pass,  though  I  could  see  he  wasn't 
convinced  by  Vandeman's  sentimentalities,  any  more 
than  I  was.  After  the  man  had  gone,  I  turned  on 
Worth  sharply,  with, 

"Why  the  devil  did  you  tell  that  pink-tea  proposition 
about  your  dealings  with  the  Van  Ness  Avenue  bank?" 

"Safety  valve,  I  guess.  I  get  up  too  heavy  a  load 
of  steam,  and  it's  easy  to  blow  it  off  to  Vandeman. 
Told  him  most  of  it  in  the  smoker,  coming  up.  You'll 
talk  about  anything  in  a  smoker." 

"Oh,  will  you  ?"  I  said  in  exasperation.  "And  you'll 
burn  anything,  I  suppose,  that  a  match'll  set  fire  to?" 

"Go  easy,  Jerry  Boyne."  His  chin  dropped  to  his 
chest,  he  sat  glowering  out  through  the  window. 
"Cleansing  fires  for  that  sort  of  garbage,"  he  said 
finally.  "I  burned  them  on  the  day  of  his  funeral." 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  TORN  PAGE 

MY  coming  had   thrown   dinner   late;   we   were 
barely  through  with  the  meal  and  back  once 
more  in  the  living  room  when  the  latch  of  the  French 
window  rattled,  the  window  itself  was  pushed  open, 
and  a  high  imperious  voice  proclaimed, 

"The  Princess  of  China,  calling  on  Mr.  Worth 
Gilbert." 

There  stood  Ina  Vandeman  in  the  gorgeously  em 
broidered  robes  of  a  high  caste  Chinese  lady,  her  fair 
hair  covered  by  a  sleek  black  wig  that  struck  out  some 
thing  odd,  almost  ominous,  in  the  coloring  of  her  skin, 
the  very  planes  of  her  features.  Outside,  along  the 
porch,  sounded  the  patter  of  many  feet ;  Skeet  wriggled 
through  the  narrow  frame  under  her  tall  sister's  arm, 
came  scooting  into  the  room  to  turn  and  gaze  back 
at  her. 

"Doesn't  she  look  the  vamp?" 

"Skeet !"  Ina  had  sailed  in  by  this  time,  and  Ernes 
tine  followed  more  soberly.  "You've  been  told  not  to 
say  that." 

"I  think,"  the  other  twin  backed  her  up  virtuously, 
"with  poor  mother  sick  and  all,  you  might  respect  her 
wishes.  You  know  what  she  said  about  calling  Ina 
a  vamp."  And  Skeet  drawled  innocently, 

"That  it  hit  too  near  the  truth  to  be  funny — wasn't 
that  it?" 

188 


THE  TORN  PAGE  189 

Through  the  open  window  had  followed  a  half  dozen 
more  of  the  Blossom  Festival  crowd,  Barbara  and 
Bronson  Vandeman  among  them.  Ina  paid  no  atten 
tion  to  any  one,  standing  there,  her  height  increased 
by  the  long,  straight  lines  of  the  costume,  her  bisque 
dell  features  given  a  strange,  pallid  dignity  by  the  raw 
magnificence  of  its  crusted  purple  and  crimson  and 
green  and  gold  embroidery  and  the  dead  black  wig. 

"Isn't  it  an  exquisite  thing,  Worth  ?"  displaying  her 
self  before  him.  "Bronse  has  a  complete  Mandarin 
costume ;  we  lead  the  grand  march  as  the  emperor  and 
empress  of  Mongolia.  Don't  you  think  it's  a  good 
idea?" 

"First  rate/'  Worth  spoke  in  his  usual  unexcited 
fashion,  and  it  was  difficult  to  say  whether  he  meant 
the  oriental  idea  or  the  appearance  of  the  girl  who 
stood  before  him.  She  came  close  and  offered  the 
cuff  of  one  of  her  sleeves  to  show  him  the  embroidery, 
lifting  a  delicate  chin  to  display  the  jade  buttons  at 
the  neck. 

Barbara  over  on  the  other  side  of  the  room  refused 
to  meet  my  eye.  Mrs.  Bowman,  a  big  fur  piece  pulled 
up  around  her  throat,  shivered.  I  met  half  a  dozen 
Santa  Ysobel  people  whose  names  I've  forgotten.  I 
could  see  that  Bronson  Vandeman  socially  took  the 
lead  here,  that  everybody  looked  to  him.  The  room 
was  a  babel  of  talk,  when  a  few  minutes  later  the  door 
bell  rang  in  orthodox  fashion,  and  Chung  ushered 
Cummings  in  upon  the  general  confusion.  Some  of 
the  bunch  knew  and  spoke  to  him ;  others  didn't  and 
had  to  be  presented;  it  took  the  first  of  his  time  and 
attention.  He  only  got  a  chance  for  one  swipe  at  me, 
a  lo\v-toned,  sarcastic, 


THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Made  a  mistake  to  duck  me,  Boyne." 

I  didn't  think  it  worth  while  to  answer  that. 
Presently  I  saw  him  standing  with  Barbara.  He 
was  evidently  effecting  a  switch  of  his  theater  engage 
ment  to  the  ball,  for  I  heard  Skeet's, 

"Mr.  Cummings  wants  a  ticket!  He'll  need  two! 
Ten  dollars,  Mr.  Cummings — five  apiece." 

"No,  no — Skeet,"  Barbara  laughed  embarrassedly. 
"Mr.  Cummings  was  just  joking.  He'll  not  be  here 
Saturday  night." 

"I'll  come  back  for  it,"  hand  in  pocket. 

"It's  a  masquerade — "  Barbara  hesitated. 

"Bring  my  costume  with  me  from  San  Francisco." 

"I'm  not  sure — "  again  Barbara  hesitated;  Skeet 
cut  in  on  her, 

"Why,  Barbie  Wallace!  It's  what  you  came  to 
Santa  Ysobel  for — the  Bloss.  Fes.  ball.  And  to  think 
of  your  getting  a  perfectly  good  man,  right  at  the  last 
minute  this  way,  and  not  having  to  tag  on  to  Bronse 
and  Ina  or  something  like  that!  I  think  you're  the 
lucky  girl,"  and  she  clutched  Cummings'  offered  pay 
ment  to  stow  it  with  other  funds  she  had  collected. 

At  last  they  got  themselves  out  of  the  room  and  left 
us  alone  with  Cummings.  He  had  carried  through 
his  little  deal  with  Barbara  as  though  it  meant  con 
siderable  to  him,  but  I  knew  that  his  errand  with 
Worth  was  serious,  and  put  in  quickly, 

"I  intended  to  write  or  phone  you  to-morrow,  Cum 
mings." 

"Well,"  the  lawyer  worked  his  mouth  a  bit  under 
that  bristly  mustache  and  looked  at  Worth,  "it  might 
have  saved  you  some  embarrassment  if  you'd  been 
warned  of  my  errand  here  to-night — earlier,  that  is. 


THE  TORN  PAGE  191 

I  suppose  Captain  Gilbert  has  told  you  that  I  phoned 
him,  when  I  failed  to  connect  with  you,  that  I  was 
coining  here — and  what  I  was  coming  for?" 

"I  didn't  tell  Jerry,"  Worth  picked  up  a  cigarette. 
"Couldn't  very  well  tell  him  what  you  were  coming 
for.  Don't  know  myself." 

.The  words  were  blunt;  really  I  think  there  was  no 
intention  to  offend,  only  the  simple  statement  of  a 
fact ;  but  I  could  see  Cummings  beginning  to  simmer, 
as  he  inquired, 

"Does  that  mean  you  didn't  understand  my  words  on 
the  phone,  or  that  you  understood  them  and  couldn't 
make  out  what  I  meant  by  them?" 

"Little  of  both,"  allowed  Worth.  Cummings 
stepped  close  to  him  and  let  him  have  it  direct: 

"I'm  here  to-night,  Captain  Gilbert,  as  executor  of 
your  father's  estate.  I  have  filed  the  will  to-day.  I 
might  have  done  so  earlier,  but  when  I  inventoried  this 
place  (you  remember,  the  day  before  the  funeral — 
you  were  here  at  the  time)  I  failed  to  locate  a  consid 
erable  portion  of  your  father's  estate." 

"You  failed  to  locate?  All  the  estate's  here;  this 
house,  the  down-town  properties.  What  do  you  mean, 
failed  to  locate?" 

"I  was  not  alluding  to  realty,"  said  Cummings. 
"It's  my  duty  to  locate  and  report  to  the  court  the 
present  whereabouts  of  seventy-five  thousand  dollars 
worth  of  stock  in  the  Van  Ness  Avenue  Savings  Bank. 
Can  you  declare  to  me  as  executor,  where  it  is  ?  And, 
if  any  other  person  than  your  father  placed  it  in  its 
present  whereabouts,  are  you  ready  to  declare  to  me 
how  and  when  it  came  into  that  person's  possession?" 

"Quite  a  lot  of  words,  Cummings;  but  it  doesn't 


192    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

mean  anything,"  Worth  said  casually.  "You  know 
where  that  bank  stock  is  and  who  put  it  there." 

"Officially,  I  do  not  know.  Officially,  I  demand  to 
be  told." 

"Unofficially,  answer  it  for  yourself."  Worth 
turned  his  back  on  the  lawyer  to  get  a  match  from  the 
mantel. 

"Very  well.  My  answer  is  that  I  intend  to  find  out 
how  and  when  that  bank  stock  which  formed  a  part 
of  your  payment  to  the  Van  Ness  Avenue  bank  dis 
appeared  from  this  house." 

I  admit  I  was  scared.  Here  was  the  first  gun  of  the 
coming  battle;  and  I  was  sure  this  enemy,  who  stood 
now  looking  through  half  closed  eyes  at  the  lad's  back, 
would  have  poisoned  gas  among  his  weapons.  He 
had  emphasized  the  "when."  He  believed  that  the 
stories  of  Worth's  night  visit  to  his  father  were  true; 
that  the  implied  denial  by  Barbara  and  myself  in  my 
office,  was  false;  that  Worth  had  either  received  the 
stock  from  his  father  that  Saturday  night  or  taken 
it  unlawfully.  I  was  sure  that  it  was  the  stock  cer 
tificates  which  I  had  seen  Worth  take  from  the  safe- 
compartment  of  the  sideboard  in  the  small  hours  of 
Monday  morning;  a  breach  of  legal  form  which  it 
would  be  possible  for  a  friendly  executor  to  pass 
over. 

"Cummings,  Worth  inherits  everything  under  his 
father's  will;  what's  the  difference  about  a  small  ir 
regularity  in  taking  possession?  He — " 

"Never  explain,  Jerry,"  Worth  shut  me  up.  "Your 
friends  don't  need  it,  and  your  enemies  won't  believe 
it." 

Cummings  had  stood  where  he  was  since  the  first 


THE  TORN  PAGE  193 

of  the  interview.  His  face  went  strangely  livid. 
There  was  more  in  this  than  a  legal  fight. 

"Yes,  Boyne's  a  fool  to  try  to  help  your  case  with 
explanations,  Gilbert,"  he  choked  out.  "I'll  see  that 
both  of  you  get  a  chance  to  answer  questions  elsewhere 
— under  oath.  Good  evening."  He  turned  and  left. 

He  had  the  best  of  it  all  around.  I  endeavored  for 
some  time  to  get  before  Worth  the  dangers  of  his 
high-handed  defiance  of  law,  order,  probate  judges, 
and  the  court's  officers,  in  the  person  of  Allen  G. 
Cummings,  attorney  and  his  father's  executor.  He 
listened,  yawned — and  suggested  that  it  must  be  nearly 
bedtime.  I  gave  it  up,  and  we  went — I,  at  least,  with 
a  sense  of  danger  ahead  upon  me — to  our  rooms. 

Along  in  the  middle  of  the  night  I  waked  to  the 
knowledge  that  a  casement  window  was  pounding 
somewhere  in  the  house.  For  a  while  I  lay  and  listened 
in  that  helpless,  exaggerated  resentment  one  feels  at 
such  a  time.  I'd  drop  off,  get  nearly  to  sleep,  only  to 
be  jerked  broad  awake  again  by  the  thudding.  Lis 
tening  carefully  I  decided  that  the  bothersome  window 
was  in  Worth's  room,  and  finally  I  got  up  sense  and 
spunk  enough  to  roll  out  of  bed,  stick  my  feet  into 
slippers,  and  sneak  over  with  the  intention  of  locking 
it. 

The  room  was  dimly  lighted  from  the  street  lamps, 
far  away  as  they  were;  I  made  my  way  across  it. 
Worth's  deep,  regular  breathing  was  quite  undisturbed. 
I  had  trouble  with  the  catch,  went  and  felt  over  the 
bureau  and  found  his  flashlight,  fixed  the  window  by 
its  help,  and  returning  it,  remembering  how  near  I 
came  to  knocking  it  off  the  bureau  top,  thought  to  put 
it  in  a  drawer  which  stood  half  open. 


194    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

As  I  aimed  it  downward,  its  circle  of  illumination 
showed  something  projecting  a  corner  from  beneath 
the  swirl  of  ties  and  sheaf  of  collars — a  book — a  red 
morocco-bound  book.  Mechanically  I  nudged  the  stuff 
away  with  the  torch  itself.  What  lay  there  turned  me 
cold.  It  was  the  1920  diary! 

My  fingers  relaxed ;  the  flashlight  fell  with  a  thump, 
as  I  let  out  an  exclamation  of  dismay.  A  sleepy  voice 
inquired  from  the  bed, 

"Hi,  you  Jerry!     What  you  up  to  in  here?" 

For  answer,  I  dragged  out  the  book,  went  over  to  the 
bed,  and  switched  on  the  reading  lamp  there.  Worth 
scowled  in  the  glare,  and  flung  his  arms  up  back  of  his 
head  for  a  pillow  to  raise  it  a  bit. 

"Yeah,"  blinking  amiably  at  the  volume.  "Meant 
to  tell  you.  Found  it  to-day  when  I  was  down  in  the 
repair  pit  at  the  garage.  It  had  been  stuck  in  the 
drainpipe  there." 

"And  I  suppose,"  I  said  savagely,  "that  if  I  hadn't 
come  onto  it  now,  you'd  have  burned  this,  too." 

"Don't  get  sore,  Jerry,"  he  said.  "I  saved  it,"  and 
he  yawned. 

I  had  an  uncontrollable  impulse  to  have  a  look  at 
that  last  entry,  which  would  record  the  bitter  final 
quarrel  between  this  boy  and  his  father.  No  difficulty 
about  finding  the  spot ;  as  I  raised  the  book  in  my 
hands  it  fell  open  of  itself  at  the  place.  I  looked  and 
what  I  saw  choked  me — got  cross-wise  in  my  throat 
for  a  moment  so  no  words  could  come  out.  I  stuck 
the  book  under  his  nose,  and  held  it  there  till  I  could 
whisper. 

"Worth,  did  you  do  this?" 

The  last  written  page  was  numbered  49;  on  it  was 


THE  TORN  PAGE  195 

recorded  the  date,  March  sixth;  the  weather,  cloudy, 
clearing  late  in  the  afternoon;  the  fact  that  the  sun  had 
set  red  in  a  cloudless  sky ;  and  it  ended  abruptly  in  the 
middle  of  a  phrase.  The  leaf  that  carried  page  50  had 
been  torn  out;  not  cut  away  carefully  as  were  those 
leaves  in  the  earlier  book,  but  ripped  loose,  grabbed 
with  clutching  ringers  that  scarred  and  twisted  the  leaf 
below! 

He  shoved  my  hand  away  and  stared  at  me.  For  a 
moment  I  thought  everything  was  over.  Certainly  I 
could  not  be  a  very  appealing  sight,  standing  there 
sweating  with  fear,  my  hair  all  stuck  up  on  my  head 
where  I'd  clawed  it,  shivering  in  my  nightclothes  more 
from  miserable  nervousness  than  from  cold ;  but  some 
how  those  eyes  of  his  softened ;  he  gave  me  one  of  the 
looks  that  people  who  care  for  Worth  will  go  far  to 
get,  and  said  quietly, 

"You  see  what  you're  doing?  I  told  you  I  didn't 
steal  the  book,  so  that  clears  me  in  your  mind  of  being 
the  murderer.  Now  you're  after  me  about  this  torn- 
out  page.  If  I'd  torn  it  out  and  stolen  it — you  and  I 
would  know  what  it  would  mean." 

"But,  boy — ,"  I  began,  when  he  suffered  a  change  of 
heart. 

"Get  out  of  here !     Take  that  damn  book  and  leave." 

He  heaved  himself  over  in  the  bed,  hunching  the 
covers  about  his  ears,  turning  his  back  on  me.  As  I 
crept  away,  I  heard  him  finish  in  a  sort  of  mutter — as 
though  to  himself — 

"I'm  sorry  for  you,  Jerry  Boyne." 


CHAPTER  XIX 

ON  THE  HILL-TOP 

MORNING  dawned  on  the  good  ship  Jerry  Boyne 
not  so  dismasted  and  rudderless  as  you  might 
have  thought.  I'd  carried  that  1920  diary  to  my  room 
and,  before  I  slept,  read  the  whole  of  it.  This  was 
the  last  word  we  had  from  the  dead  man ;  here  i  f  any 
where  would  be  found  support  for  the  suggestions  of 
a  weakening  mind  and  suicide. 

Nothing  of  that  sort  here;  on  the  contrary,  Thomas 
Gilbert  was  very  much  his  clear-headed,  unpleasant, 
tyrannical  self  to  the  last  stroke  of  the  pen.  But  I 
came  on  something  to  build  up  a  case  against  Eddie 
Hughes,  the  chauffeur. 

I  didn't  get  much  sleep.  As  soon  as  I  heard  Chung 
moving  around,  I  went  down,  had  him  give  me  a  cup 
of  coffee,  then  stationed  him  on  the  back  porch,  and 
walked  to  the  study,  shut  myself  in,  and  discharged  my 
heavy  police  revolver  into  a  corner  of  the  fireplace; 
then  with  the  front  door  open,  fired  again. 

"How  many  shots?"  I  called  to  Chung. 

"One  time  shoot." 

Worth's  head  poked  from  his  upstair's  window  as  he 
shouted, 

"What's  the  excitement  down  there?" 

"Trying  my  gun.     How  many  times  did  I  fire?" 

"Once,  you  crazy  Indian!"  and  the  question  of 
sound-proof  walls  was  settled.  Nobody  heard  the 

196 


ON  THE  HILL-TOP  197 

shot  that  killed  Gilbert  twenty  feet  away  from  the 
study  if  the  door  was  closed.  Mrs.  Thornhill's  rav 
ings,  as  described  in  Skeet's  letter  to  Barbara,  were 
merely  delirium. 

I  walked  out  around  the  driveway  to  the  early 
morning  streets  of  Santa  Ysobel.  The  little  town 
looked  as  peaceful  and  innocent  as  a  pan  of  milk.  In 
an  hour  or  so,  its  ways  would  be  full  of  people  rush 
ing  about  getting  ready  for  the  carnival,  a  curious 
contrast  to  my  own  business,  sinister,  tragic.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  two  currents  moved  almost  as  one,  the 
hidden,  dark  part  under — for  there  must  be  those  in 
the  town  who  knew  the  crime  was  murder;  the  mur 
derer  himself  must  still  be  here — and  the  foam  of 
noisy  gayety  and  blossoms  riding  atop.  A  Blossom 
Festival;  the  boyhood  of  the  year;  and  I  was  in  the 
midst  of  it,  hunting  a  murderer! 

An  hour  later  I  talked  to  Barbara  in  the  stuffy 
little  front  room  at  Capehart's,  brow-beaten  by  the 
noise  of  Sarah  getting  breakfast  on  the  other  side  of 
the  thin  board  partition;  more  disconcerted  by  the  girl's 
manner  of  receiving  the  information  of  how  I  had 
found  the  1920  diary  hidden  in  Worth's  bureau 
drawer.  There  was  a  swift,  very  personal  anger  at 
me.  I  had  to  clear  myself  instantly  and  thoroughly 
of  any  suspicion  of  believing  for  a  moment  that  Worth 
himself  had  stolen  or  mutilated  the  book,  protesting, 

"I  don't — I  don't!  Listen,  Barbara — be  reason 
able!" 

"That  means  'Barbara,  be  scared!'  And  I  won't. 
When  they're  scared,  people  make  mistakes." 

"You  might  see  differently  if  you'd  been  there  last 
night  when  Cummings  made  his  charge  against  Worth. 


198    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

That  seventy  two  thousand  dollars  Worth  carried  up 
to  the  city  Monday  morning,  he  had  taken  from  his 
father's  safe  the  night  before." 

For  a  minute  she  just  looked  at  me,  and  not  even 
Worth  Gilbert's  dare-devil  eyes  ever  held  a  more  in 
clusively  defiant  light  than  those  big,  soft,  dark  ones 
of  hers. 

"Well— wasn't  it  his?" 

"All  right,"  I  said  shortly.  "I'm  not  here  to  talk 
of  Worth's  financial  methods ;  they're  scheduled  to  get 
him  into  trouble;  but  let  that  pass.  Look  through 
this  book  and  you'll  see  who  it  is  I'm  after." 

She  had  already  opened  the  volume,  and  began  to 
glance  along  the  pages.  She  made  a  motion  for  me 
to  wait.  I  leaned  back  in  my  chair,  and  it  was  only 
a  few  moments  later  that  she  looked  up  to  say, 

"Don't  make  the  arrest,  Mr.  Boyne.  You  have 
nothing  here  against  Eddie — for  murder." 

Because  I  doubted  myself,  I  began  to  scold,  wind 
ing  up, 

"All  the  same,  if  that  gink  hasn't  jumped  town, 
I'll  arrest  him." 

"It  would  be  a  good  deal  more  logical  to  arrest 
him  if  he  had  jumped  the  town,"  Barbara  reminded 
me.  "If  you  really  want  to  see  him,  Mr.  Boyne, 
you'll  find  him  at  the  garage  around  on  the  highway. 
He's  working  for  Bill." 

That  was  a  set-back.  A  fleeing  Eddie  Hughes 
might  have  been  hopeful ;  an  Eddie  Hughes  who  gave 
his  employer  back-talk,  got  himself  fired,  and  then 
settled  down  within  hand-reach,  was  not  so  good  a 
bet.  Barbara  saw  how  it  hit  me,  and  offered  a  sug 
gestion. 


ON  THE  HILL-TOP  199 

"Mr.  Boyne,  Worth  and  I  are  taking  a  hike  out  to 
San  Leandro  canyon  this  afternoon  to  get  ferns  for 
the  decorating  committee.  Suppose  you  come  along 
— anyhow,  a  part  of  the  way — and  have  a  quiet  talk, 
all  alone  with  us.  Don't  do  anything  until  you  have 
consulted  Worth." 

.  "All  right — I'll  go  you,"  I  assented,  and  half  past 
two  saw  the  three  of  us,  Worth  in  corduroys  and 
puttees,  Barbara  with  high  boots  and  short,  dust- 
brown  skirt,  tramping  out  past  the  homes  of  people 
toward  the  open  country.  At  the  Vandeman  place 
Skeet's  truck  was  out  in  front,  piled  with  folding 
chairs,  frames,  light  lumber,  and  a  lot  of  decorative 
stuff.  The  tall  Chinaman  came  from  the  house  with 
another  load. 

"You  Barbie  Wallace!"  the  flapper  howled.  "Aren't 
you  ashamed  to  be  walking  off  with  Worth  and  Mr. 
Boyne  both,  and  good  men  scarce  as  hen's  teeth  in 
Santa  Ysobel  to-day!" 

"I'm  not  walking  off  with  them — they're  walking 
off  with  me,"  Barbara  laughed  at  her. 

"Shameless  one!"  Skeet  drawled.  "I  see  you  let 
Mr.  Cummings  have  a  day  off — aren't  you  the  kind 
little  boss  to  'em!" 

I  just  raised  my  brows  at  Barbara,  and  she  explained 
a  bit  hastily, 

"Skeet  thinks  she  has  to  be  silly  over  the  fact  that 
Mr.  Cummings  has  gone  up  to  town,  I  suppose." 
She  added  with  fine  indifference,  "He'll  be  back  in 
the  morning." 

"You  bet  he'll  be  back  in  the  morning,"  Worth 
assured  the  world. 

"Now  what  does  he  mean  by  that,  Mr.  Boyne?" 


200    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"He  means  Cummings  is  out  after  him." 

"I  don't,"  Worth  contradicted  me  personally.  "I 
mean  he's  after  Bobs.  She  knows  it.  Look  at  her." 

She  glanced  up  at  me  from  under  her  hat-brim,  all 
the  stars  out  in  those  shadowy  pools  that  were  her 
eyes.  The  walk  had  brought  sumptuous  color  to  her 
cheeks,  where  the  two  extra  deep  dimples  began  to 
show. 

"You  both  may  think,"  she  began  with  a  sobriety 
that  belied  the  dimples  and  shining  eyes,  "looking  on 
from  the  outside,  that  Mr.  Cummings  has  an  idea 
of,  as  Skeet  would  say,  'rushing'  me;  but  when  we're 
alone  together,  about  all  he  talks  of  is  Worth." 

"Bad  sign,"  Worth  flung  over  a  shoulder  that  he 
pushed  a  little  in  advance  of  us.  "Takes  the  old 
fellows  that  way.  Their  notion  of  falling  for  a  girl 
is  to  fight  all  the  other  Johnnies  in  sight.  Guess 
you've  got  him  going,  Bobs." 

I  walked  along,  chewing  over  the  matter.  She'd 
estimated  Cummings  fairly,  as  she  did  most  things 
that  she  turned  that  clear  mind  of  hers  on;  but  her 
lack  of  vanity  kept  her  from  realizing,  as  I  did,  that 
he  was  in  the  way  to  become  a  dangerous  personal 
enemy  to  Worth.  His  self-interest,  she  thought,  would 
eventually  swing  him  to  Worth's  side.  She  didn't  as 
yet  perceive  that  a  motive  more  powerful  than  self- 
interest  had  hold  of  him  now. 

"Why,  Mr.  Boyne,"  she  answered  as  though  I'd 
been  speaking  my  thoughts  aloud,  "I've  known  Mr. 
Cummings  for  years  and  years.  He  never — " 

"You  said  a  mouthful  there,  Bobs."  Worth  halted, 
grinning,  to  interrupt  her.  "He  never — none  what 
ever.  But  he  has  now." 


ON  THE  HILL-TOP  201 

"He  hasn't.'' 

''Leave  it  to  Jerry.  Jerry  saw  him  that  first  night 
in  at  Tait's;  then  afterward,  in  the  office." 

"Oh,  come  on!"  Barbara  started  ahead  impa 
tiently.  "What  difference  would  it  make." 

They  went  on  ahead  of  me,  scrapping  briskly,  as 
a  boy  and  girl  do  who  have  grown  up  together.  I 
stumped  along  after  and  reflected  on  the  folly  of  man 
kind  in  general,  and  that  of  Allen  G.  Cummings  in 
particular.  That  careful,  mature  bachelor  had  seen 
this  lustrous  young  creature  blossom  to  her  present 
perfection;  he'd  no  doubt  offered  her  safe  and  sane 
attention,  when  she  came  to>  live  in  San  Francisco 
where  they  had  friends  in  common.  But  it  had  needed 
Worth  Gilbert's  appearance  on  the  scene  to  wake  him 
up  to  his  own  real  feeling.  Forty-five  on  the  chase 
of  nimble  sweet  and  twenty;  Cummings  was  in  for 
sore  feet  and  humiliating  tumbles — and  we  were  in 
for  the  worst  he  could  do  to  us.  I  sighed.  Worth 
had  more  than  one  way  of  making  enemies,  it  seemed. 

At  last  we  came  in  sight  of  the  country  club  upon 
its  rise  of  ground  overlooking  the  golf  links.  The 
low,  brown  clubhouse,  built  bungalow  fashion,  with  a 
long  front  gallery  and  gravel  sweep,  was  swarming 
with  people — the  decorators.  Motors  came  and  went. 
The  grounds  were  being  strung  with  paper  lanterns. 
Wre  skirted  these,  and  the  links  itself  where  there  were 
two  or  three  players,  obstinate,  defiant  old  men  who 
would  have  their  game  in  spite  of  forty  blossom  fes 
tivals — climbed  a  fence,  and  crossed  the  grass  up  to 
the  crest  of  a  little  round  hill,  halting  there  for  the 
view.  It  wasn't  high,  but  standing  free  as  it  did, 
it  commanded  pretty  nearly  the  entire  Santa  Ysobel 


202    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

district.  Massed  acres  of  pink  and  white,  the  great 
orchards  ran  one  into  the  other  without  break  for 
miles.  The  lanes  between  the  trunks,  diamonded  like, 
a  harlequin's  robe  in  mathematical  primness,  were 
newly  turned  furrows  of  rich,  black  soil,  against  which 
the  gray  or,  sometimes,  whitewashed  trunks  of  apricot, 
peach  and  plum  trees  gave  contrast.  Then  the  cap  of 
glorious  blossoms,  meeting  overhead  in  the  older  or 
chards,  with  a  warm  blue  sky  above  and  puffs  of 
clouds  that  matched  the  pure  white  of  the  plum  trees' 
bloom. 

The  spot  suited  me  well;  we  had  left  the  town  be 
hind  us;  here  neither  Dykeman's  spotter  nor  any  one 
he  hired  to  help  him  could  get  within  listening  distance. 
I  dropped  down  on  a  bank;  Worth  and  Barbara  dis 
posed  themselves,  he  sprawling  his  length,  she  sitting 
cross-legged,  just  below  him. 

It  wasn't  easy  to  make  a  beginning.  I  knew  it 
wouldn't  do  me  any  particular  good  with  Worth  to 
dwell  on  his  danger.  But  I  finally  managed  to  lay 
fairly  before  them  my  case  against  Eddie  Hughes,  and 
I  must  say  that,  as  I  told  it,  it  sounded  pretty  strong. 

I  didn't  want  to  put  too  much  stress  on  having 
found  my  evidence  in  the  diaries ;  I  knew  Worth  was 
as  obstinate  as  a  mule,  and  having  said  that  he  would 
not  stand  for  any  one  being  prosecuted  on  their  evi 
dence,  he'd  stick  to  it  till  the  skies  fell.  I  called  on 
my  memory  of  those  pages,  now  unfortunately  ashes 
and  not  get-atable,  and  explained  that  Worth's  father 
hired  Hughes  directly  after  a  jail-break  at  San  Jose 
had  roused  the  whole  country.  Three  of  the  four 
escapes  were  rounded  up  in  the  course  of  a  few  days, 
but  the  fourth — known  to  us  as  Eddie  Hughes — was 


ON  THE  HILL-TOP  203 

safe  in  Thomas  Gilbert's  garage,  working  there  as 
chauffeur,  having  been  employed  without  recommen 
dation  on  the  strength  of  what  he  could  do. 

"And  the  low  wages  he  was  willing  to  take,"  Worth 
put  in  drily.  "Old  stuff,  Jerry.  I  wasn't  sure  till 
you  spilled  it  just  now  that  my  father  was  wise  to 
it.  But  I  knew.  What  you  getting  at?" 

"Just  this.  When  I  talked  to  Hughes  that  first 
night  I  came  down  here  with  you,  while  we  all  sup 
posed  the  death  a  suicide,  he  couldn't  keep  his  resent 
ment  against  your  father,  his  hatred  of  him,  from 
boiling  over  every  time  he  was  mentioned." 

"Get  on,"  said  Worth  wearily.  "Father  hired  a 
jail-bird  that  came  cheap.  Probably  put  it  to  him 
self  that  he  was  giving  the  man  a  chance  to  go 
straight." 

I  glanced  up.  This  was  just  about  what  I  remem 
bered  Thomas  Gilbert  to  have  said  in  the  entry  that 
.told  of  the  hiring  of  Eddie.  Worth  nodded  grimly 
at  my  startled  face. 

"Eddie's  gone  straight  since  then,"  he  filled  in. 
"That  is,  he's  kept  out  of  jail,  which  is  going  straight 
for  Eddie.  He'd  certainly  hate  the  man  who  held  him 
as  he's  been  held  for  five  years.  Not  motive  enough 
for  murder  though." 

"There's  more.  The  1920  diary  you  gave  me  last 
night  tells  when  and  why  the  extra  bolts  were  put  on 
the  study  doors.  Your  father  had  been  missing 
liquor  and  cigars  and  believed  Hughes  was  taking 
them." 

"Pilfering!"  with  an  expression  of  distaste.  "That 
doesn't—" 

"Hold  on !"    I  stopped  him.    "On  February  twelfth 


204    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

your  father  left  money,  marked  coin  and  paper  money, 
as  if  by  accident,  on  the  top  of  the  liquor  cabinet; 
not  exposed,  but  dropped  in  under  the  edge  of  the 
big  ash  tray  so  it  might  look  as  though  it  were  for 
gotten — in  a  sense,  lost  there." 

"How  much?"  came  the  quick  question. 

"Fifty  one  dollars."     He  looked  around  at  me. 

"Just  one  dollar  above  the  limit  of  petty  larceny; 
a  hundred  cents  added  to  put  it  in  the  felony  class 
that  meant  state's  prison.  So  he  could  have  sent 
Eddie  to  the  pen, — eh?  I  guess  you've  got  a  motive 
there,  Boyne." 

"Well — er — '  I  squirmed  over  my  statement, 
blurting  out  finally.  "Hughes  didn't  take  the  money." 

"Knew  it  was  a  trap,"  Worth's  laugh  was  bitter. 
"And  hated  the  man  who  cold-bloodedly  set  it  to  catch 
him.  If  he  didn't  take  it,  don't  you  think  he  counted 
it?" 

"Worth,"  I  said  sharply.  "Your  father  put  those 
bolts  on — and  continued  to  find  that  he  was  being 
robbed.  He  was  mad  about  it.  Any  man  would  be. 
Say  what  you  will,  no  one  likes  to  find  that  persons 
in  his  employ  are  stealing  from  him.  The  aggravat 
ing  thing  was  that  he  couldn't  bring  it  home  to 
Hughes,  though  he  was  sure  of  the  fact." 

"So  he  went  back  to  what  he  had  known  of  Eddie 
when  he  hired  him?  After  profiting  by  it  for  five 
years,  he  was  going  to  rake  that  up?" 

"He  was," — a  bit  nettled — "and  well  within  his 
rights  to  do  so.  Three  weeks  before  he  was  shot,  he 
wrote  that  he'd  started  the  inquiry.  There  was  no 
further  mention  of  the  matter  in  the  book  as  it  stands, 
but  don't  you  see  that  the  result  of  the  inquiry  must 


ON  THE  HILL-TOP  205 

have  been  on  that  torn-out  last  page?  Eddie's  Sat 
urday  night  alibi  won't  hold  water.  His  cannery  girl, 
of  course,  will  swear  he  was  with  her;  but  there's  no 
corroborating  testimony.  No  one  saw  them  together 
from  nine  till  twelve." 

Dead  silence  dropped  on  us,  with  the  white  clouds 
standing  like  witnesses  in  the  blue  above,  the  wind 
bringing  now  and  again  on  its  scented  wings  little 
faint  echoes  of  the  noise  down  at  the  clubhouse. 

"What  more  do  you  want?"  Both  young  faces 
were  set  against  me,  cold  and  hostile.  "Here  was 
motive,  opportunity,  a  suspect  capable  of  the  deed. 
My  theory  is  that  Mr.  Gilbert  came  in  on  Hughes, 
caught  him  in  the  act  of  stealing  from  the  cabinet. 
Hughes  jumped  for  the  pistol  over  the  fireplace,  got 
it,  fired  the  fatal  shot,  and  placed  the  dead  man's 
fingers  about  the  butt  of  the  gun.  Then  he  picked 
up  the  diary  lying  on  the  table,  tore  out  the  leaf  about 
himself,  and  poked  the  rest  of  the  book  down  the 
drain  pipe." 

"And  the  shot?"  Worth  resisted  me.  "Why  didn't 
the  shot  bring  Chung  on  the  run?" 

"Because  he  couldn't  hear  it.  Nobody'd  hear  it  ten 
paces  away.  That's  what  I  was  trying  out  this  morn 
ing.  You  told  me  I'd  fired  once.  Well,  I  fired  twice ; 
once  with  the  door  shut,  and  neither  you  nor  Chung 
heard  it;  afterward,  with  the  door  open — the  report 
you  registered." 

"The  blotter — and  it  had  been  used  on  that  last 
page — showed  no  words  to  strengthen  this  theory  of 
yours,"  said  Barbara  as  confidently  as  though  the 
little  blue  square  had  been  clear  print,  instead  of 
broken  blurring.  Perhaps  it  was  clear  to  her.  I  was 


206    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

glad  I'd  given  it  a  thorough  reexami nation  the  night 
before. 

"I  think  it  does,"  I  struggled  against  the  tide,  man 
fully,  buoying  myself  up  with  the  tracing  of  the  blot 
ter.  "Here's  the  word  'demanded/  reasonably  con 
nected  with  the  affair.  The  letters  'Her'  may  be  the 
last  end  of  'caller,'  or  possibly  'fuller' ;  I  noticed  Gilbert 
spoke  in  a  former  entry  of  the  bottle  in  the  cabinet 
and  Hughes  snitching  from  it,  and  used  the  word 
'fuller.'  Here's  the  word  'Avenue/  complete,  and 
Lizzie  Watkins,  Hughes'  girl,  lives  on  Myrtle  Av 
enue." 

The  silence  after  that  was  fairly  derisive.  Worth 
broke  it  with  an  impatient, 

"And  the  fact  of  the  bolted  doors  throws  all  that 
stuff  out." 

"Well,"  I  grunted,  "Barbara  deduced  the  slipping 
of  some  bolts  to  please  you  once — why  can't  she 
again?" 

"Mr.  Boyne,"  the  girl  spoke  quickly,  "it  wouldn't 
help  you  a  bit  to  be  assured  that  Eddie  Hughes  could 
enter  the  study  and  leave  it  bolted  behind  him  when 
he  went  out — help  you  to  the  truth,  I  mean.  These 
facts  you've  gathered  are  all  wabbly;  they'll  never 
in  the  world  fit  in  trim  and  true.  They're  hardly 
facts  at  all.  They're  partial  facts." 

"Wouldn't  help  me?"  I  ejaculated.  "It  would 
cinch  a  case  against  him.  We've  got  to  have  some 
one  in  jail,  and  that  shortly.  We're  forced  to." 

"Forced?"  Worth  had  sat  up  a  little  and  reached 
far  forward  for  a  stone  that  lay  among  the  weeds 
down  there.  He  spoke  to  me  sidewise  with  a  challeng- 


ON  THE  HILL-TOP  207 

ing  flicker  of  the  eye.  Barbara  kept  her  lips  tight 
shut. 

"I  need  a  prisoner,"  trying  to  correct  my  error; 
then  burst  out,  "My  Lord,  children!  An  arrest  isn't 
going  to  hurt  a  man  like  Hughes, — even  if  he  proves 
to  be  innocent.  It's  an  old  story  to  him.  Barbara, 
you  said  yourself  that  the  man  who  stole  the  1920 
diary  was  the  murderer." 

"But  I  didn't  say  Eddie  Hughes  stole  it."  Her 
tone  was  significant,  and  it  checked  me.  I  couldn't 
remember  what  the  deuce  she  had  said  that  night. 
There  recurred  to  me  her  mimicry  of  a  woman's  voice 
— Laura  Bowman's  as  I  believed — to  determine  through 
Chung  who  Thomas  Gilbert's  feminine  visitor  had 
been.  Should  that  clue  have  been  followed  up  before 
I  moved  on  Eddie  Hughes?  Even  as  I  got  to  this 
point,  I  heard  Worth,  punctuating  his  remarks  with 
the  whang  of  his  rock  on  the  bit  of  twig  he  was 
pounding  to  pieces, 

"Boyne,  I  won't  stand  for  any  arrest  being  made 
except  in  all  sincerity — the  person  you  honestly  believe 
to  be  the  criminal." 

"Does  that  mean  you  forbid  me,  in  so  many  words, 
to  proceed  against  Hughes  on  what  I've  got?" 

"It  does,"  Worth  said.  "You're  not  convinced 
yourself.  Leave  it  alone." 

"  'Nough  said!"  I  jumped  to  my  feet.  If  he 
wouldn't  let  me  lay  hands  on  Hughes — there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  go  after  the  next  one.  "You  two 
run  along.  Get  your  ferns.  There's  a  man  at  the 
club  here  I  have  to  see." 

Barbara  was  afoot  instantly;  Worth  lay  looking  at 


208    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

her  for  a  moment,  then  heaved  himself  up,  shook  his 
shoulders,  and  stood  beside  her. 

"Race  you  to  the  foot  of  the  hill,"  she  flashed  up 
at  him. 

"You're  on,"  he  chuckled.  "I'll  give  you  a  running 
start — to  the  tree  down  there — and  beat  you." 

They  were  off.  She  ran  like  a  deer.  Worth  got 
away  as  though  he  was  in  earnest.  He  caught  her  up 
just  at  the  finish;  I  couldn't  see  which  won;  but  they 
walked  a  few  rods  hand  in  hand. 

Something  swelled  in  my  throat  as  I  watched  them 
away:  life's  springtime — and  the  year's;  boy  and  girl 
running,  like  kids  that  had  never  known  a  fear  or  a 
mortal  burden,  over  an  earth  greener  than  any  other, 
because  its  time  of  verdure  is  brief,  dreaming  already 
of  the  golden-tan  of  California  midsummer,  under 
boughs  where  tree  blooms  made  all  the  air  sweet. 

For  sake  of  the  boy  and  the  girl  who  didn't  know 
enough  to  take  care  of  their  own  happiness,  I  wheeled 
and  galloped  in  the  direction  of  the  country  club. 

There  is  an  institution  known — and  respected — in 
police  circles  as  the  Holy  Scare.  I  was  determined  to 
make  use  of  it.  I'd  throw  a  holy  scare  into  a  man  I 
knew,  and  see  what  came  out. 


CHAPTER  XX 

AT  THE  COUNTRY  CLUB 

THE  country  club,  when  I  walked  up  its  lawn, 
was  noisy  with  the  hammering  and  jawing  of 
its  decoration  committee.  Out  in  the  glass  belvedere, 
like  superior  goods  on  display,  taking  it  easy  while 
every  one  else  worked,  I  saw  a  group  of  young  matrons 
of  the  smart  set,  Ina  Vandeman  among  them,  drink 
ing  tea.  The  open  play  she  was  making  at  Worth 
troubled  me  a  little.  He  was  the  silent  kind  that  keeps 
you  guessing.  She'd  landed  him  once;  what  was  to 
hinder  her  being  successful  with  the  same  tactics — 
whatever  they'd  been — a  second  time? 

Then  I  saw  Edwards'  car  was  still  out  in  the  big, 
crescent  driveway,  showing  by  the  drift  of  twigs  and 
petals  on  its  running  board  that  it  had  been  used  to 
bring  in  tree  blooms  from  his  ranch;  the  man  himself 
crossed  the  veranda,  and  I  hailed, 

"Any  place  inside  where  you  and  I  could  have  a 
private  word  together?" 

"I — I  think  so,  Boyne,"  he  hesitated.  "Come  on 
back  here. 

He  led  me  straight  across  the  big  assembly  room 
which  was  being  trimmed  for  the  ball.  From  the  top 
of  a  stepladder,  Skeet  Thornhill  yelled  to  us, 

"Where  you  two  going?  Come  back  here,  and  get 
on  the  job." 

She  had  a  dozen  noisy  assistants.     I  waved  at  her 

209 


210    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

from  the  further  door  as  we  ducked.  Strange  that 
honest,  sound  little  thing  should  be  own  sister  to  the 
doll-faced  vamp  out  there  in  the  showcase. 

Edwards  made  for  a  little  writing  room  at  the  end 
of  a  corridor.  I  followed  his  long,  nervous  stride. 
If  the  man  had  been  goaded  to  the  shooting  of 
Thomas  Gilbert,  it  would  have  been  an  act  of  passion, 
and  by  passion  he  would  betray  himself.  When  I 
had  him  alone,  the  door  shut,  I  went  to  it,  told  him  we 
knew  the  death  was  murder,  not  suicide,  and  that  the 
crime  had  been  committed  early  Saturday  night.  Be 
fore  I  could  connect  him  with  it,  he  broke  in  on  me, 

"Is  Worth  suspected?" 

"Not  by  me,"  I  said.  "And  by  God,  not  by  you, 
Edwards!  You  know  better  than  that." 

I  held  his  eye,  but  read  nothing  beyond  what  might 
have  been  the  flare  of  quick  anger  for  the  boy's  sake. 

"Who  then?"  he  said.  "Who's  dared  to  lisp  a 
word  like  that?  That  hound  Cummings — chasing 
around  Santa  Ysobel  with  Bowman — is  that  where  it 
comes  from?  I  told  Worth  the  fellow  was  knifing 
him  in  the  back."  He  began  to  stride  up  and  down 
the  room.  "The  boy's  got  other  friends — that'll  go 
their  length  for  him.  I'm  with  him  till  hell  freezes 
over.  You  can  count  on  me — " 

"Exactly  what  I  wanted  to  find  out,"  I  cut  in,  so 
significantly  that  he  whirled  at  the  end  of  his  beat  and 
stared. 

"Meaning?" 

"Meaning  you  are  the  one  man  who  could  clear 
Worth  Gilbert  of  all  suspicion." 

"What  do  you  know?" 

The  big  voice  had  come  down  to  a  mere  whisper. 


AT  THE  COUNTRY  CLUB          211 

Plenty  of  passion  now — a  passion  of  terror.  I  spoke 
quickly. 

"We  know  you  were  in  the  study  that  night,  with  a 
companion,"  and  I  piled  out  the  worst  of  his  affair,  as 
I'd  read  it  in  the  diaries,  winding  up, 

"Plain  what  brought  you  there.  Quarrel?  Mo 
tive?  Don't  need  to  look  any  further." 

Before  I  was  done  Jim  Edwards  had  groped  over 
to  a  chair  and  slumped  into  it.  A  queer,  toneless 
voice  asked, 

"Worth  sent  you  to  me — a  detective — with  this?" 

"No,"  I  said.     "I'm  acting  on  my  own." 

"And  against  his  will,"  it  came  back  instantly. 

"What  of  it?"  I  demanded.  "Are  you  the  cow 
ard  to  take  advantage  of  his  sense  of  honor? — to  let 
his  generosity  cost  him  his  life?" 

"His  life."  That  landed.  Watching,  I  saw  the 
struggle  that  tore  him.  He  jumped  up  and  started 
toward  me;  I  hadn't  much  doubt  that  I  was  now  go 
ing  to  hear  a  plea  for  mercy — a  confession,  of  sorts 
— as  he  stopped,  dropped  his  head,  and  stood  scowl 
ing  at  the  floor. 

"Talk,"  I  said.     "Spill  it.     Now's  your  time." 

He  raised  his  eyes  to  mine  and  spoke  suddenly. 

"Boyne — I  have  nothing  to  say." 

"And  Worth  Gilbert  can  hang  and  be  damned  to 
him — is  that  it?"  I  took  another  step  toward  him. 
"No,  Edwards,  that  'nothing  to  say'  stuff  won't  go  in 
a  court  of  law.  It  won't  get  you  anywhere." 

"They'll  never  in  the  world — try  Worth  for — that 
killing." 

"I'm  expecting  his  arrest  any  hour." 

"A  trial!     Those  cursed  diaries  of  Tom's  brought 


212    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

into  court — My  God!  I  believe  if  I'd  known  he'd 
written  things  like  that,  I  could  have  killed  him  for  it !" 

I  stared.  He  had  forgotten  me.  But  at  this  speech 
I  mentally  dropped  him  for  the  moment,  and  fastened 
my  suspicions  on  the  woman  who  went  with  him  to  the 
study. 

"All  right,"  I  said  brutally.  "You  didn't  kill 
Thomas  Gilbert.  But  you  took  Mrs.  Bowman  to  the 
study  that  night  to  have  it  out  with  him,  and  get  six 
pages  from  the  1916  book.  She  got  'em — and  you 
know  what  she  had  to  do  to  get  'em." 

"Hold  on,  Boyne!"  he  said  sternly.  "Don't  you 
talk  like  that  to  me." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "Mrs.  Bowman'  was  there — after 
those  diary  leaves.  I  heard  Barbara  Wallace  imitate 
her  voice — and  Chung  recognized  the  imitation.  You 
know — that  night  at  the  study — the  first  night." 

He  took  a  bewildered  moment  or  two  for  thought, 
then  broke  out, 

"It  wasn't  Laura's  voice  Barbara  imitated.  Did 
she  say  so?" 

"No,  but  she  imitated  the  voice  of  a  woman  who 
came  weeping  to  get  those  pages  from  the  diary ;  and 
who  else  would  that  be?  Who  else  would  want 
them?" 

"You're  off  the  track,  Boyne,"  he  drew  a  great, 
shuddering  sigh  of  relief.  "Tom  was  always  playing 
the  tyrant  to  those  about  him ;  no  doubt  some  woman 
did  come  crying  for  that  stuff — but  it  wasn't  Laura." 

"By  Heaven !"  I  exclaimed  as  I  looked  at  him.  "You 
know  who  it  was!  You  recognized  the  voice  that 
night — but  the  woman  isn't  one  you're  interested  in." 

"I'm  interested  in  all  women,  so  far  as  their  getting 


AT  THE  COUNTRY  CLUB         213 

a  decent  show  in  the  world  is  concerned,"  he  main 
tained  sturdily.  "I'd  go  as  far  as  any  man  to  defend 
the  good  name  of  a  woman — whether  I  thought  much 
of  her  or  not." 

"Thi's  other  woman,"  I  argued,  not  any  too  keen 
on  such  a  job  myself,  "hasn't  she  got  some  man  to 
speak  for  her?" 

Edwards  looked  at  me  innocently. 

"She  didn't  have,  then — "  he  began,  and  I  finished 
for  him, 

"But  she  has  now.  I've  got  it !"  As  I  jumped  up 
and  hurried  to  the  door,  his  eyes  followed  me  in 
wonder.  There  I  turned  with,  "Stay  right  where  you 
are.  I'll  be  back  in  a  minute,"  ducked  out  into  the 
hall  and  signaled  a  passing  messenger,  then  stepped 
quickly  back  into  the  writing  room  and  said,  "I've 
sent  for  Bronson  Vandeman." 

He  settled  deeper  in  his  chair  with, 

"I'll  stay  and  see  it  out.  If  you  get  anything  from 
Vandeman,  I  miss  my  guess." 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  MATTER  OF  TASTE 

UPON  our  few  moments  of  strained  waiting,  Van- 
deman  breezed  in,  full  of  apologies  for  his  shirt 
sleeves.  I  remember  noticing  the  monogram  worked 
on  the  left  silken  arm,  the  fit  and  swing  of  immaculate 
trousers,  as  smoothly  modeled  to  the  hip  as  a  girl's 
gown;  his  ever  smiling  face;  the  slightly  exaggerated 
way  he  wiped  fingers  already  clean  on  a  handkerchief 
pulled  from  a  rear  pocket.  He  was  the  only  uncon 
strained  person  in  the  room;  he  hardly  looked  sur 
prised;  his  glance  was  merely  inquiring.  Edwards 
apparently  couldn't  stand  it.  He  jumped  up  and 
began  his  characteristic  pacing  of  one  end  of  the 
constricted  place,  jerking  out  as  he  walked, 

"Bronse,  it's  my  fault  that  Boyne  sent  for  you. 
He's  working  on  this  trouble  of  Worth's,  you  know. 
He's  had  me  in  here,  grilling  me,  shaking  me  over 
hell;  and  something  I  said — God  knows  why — sent 
him  after  you." 

"Trouble  of  Worth's !"  Vandeman  had  been  about 
to  sit;  his  half  bent  knees  straightened  out  again;  he 
stood  beside  the  chair  and  spoke  irritably.  "Told  you, 
Boyne,  if  you  meddled  with  that  coroner's  verdict 
you'd  get  your  employer  in  the  devil  of  a  tight  place. 
Nobody  had  any  reason  for  wanting  Worth's  father 
out  of  the  way — except  Worth,  himself.  Frankly, 

214 


A  MATTER  OF  TASTE  215 

I  think  you're  wrong.  But  everything  that  I  can  do 
— of  course — " 

"All  right,"  I  said,  letting  it  fly  at  him.  "Where 
was  your  wife  from  seven  to  half  past  nine  on  the 
evening'of  Gilbert's  murder?" 

Back  went  his  head;  out  flashed  all  the  fine  teeth; 
the  man  laughed  in  my  face. 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Boyne.  I  understand  that  this 
is  serious — nothing  funny  about  it — but  really,  you 
know,  recalling  the  date,  what  you've  said  is  amusing. 
My  dear  man,"  he  went  on  as  I  stared  at  him,  "please 
remember,  yourself,  where  Ina  was  on  that  particular 
evening." 

"The  wedding  and  reception  were  done  with  by 
seven  o'clock,"  I  objected.  This  ground  was  familiar 
with  me.  I'd  been  over  it  in  considering  what  op 
portunity  Laura  Bowman  would  have  had  for  a  call 
on  Thomas  Gilbert  at  the  required  hour.  If  she  could 
slip  away  for  it,  why  not  Ina  Vandeman?  As  though 
he  read  my  thoughts  and  answered  them,  Vandeman 
filled  in, 

"A  bride,  you  know,  is  dead  certain  to  have  at  least 
half  a  dozen  persons  with  her  every  minute  of  the 
time  until  she  leaves  the  house  on  her  wedding  trip. 
Ina  did,  I'm  sure.  We'll  just  call  her  in,  and  she'll 
give  you  their  names." 

He  was  up  and  starting  to  bring  her ;  I  stopped  him. 

"We'll  not  bother  with  those  names  just  now.  I'd 
rather  have  you — or  Mrs.  Vandeman — tell  me  what 
you  suppose  would  be  the  entry  in  Thomas  Gilbert's 
diary  for  May  31  and  June  i,  1916.  I  have  already 
identified  it  as  the  date  on  which  the  Bowmans  first 
moved  into  the  Wallace  house.  I  think  Mr.  Edwards 


216    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

knows  something  more,  but  he's  not  so  communicative 
as  you  promise  to  be." 

He  looked  as  if  he  wished  he  hadn't  been  so  liberal 
with  his  assurances.  I  saw  him  glance  half  sulkily 
at  Edwards,  as  he  exclaimed, 

"But  those  diaries  are  burned — they're  burned. 
Worth  told  us  the  other  night  that  he  burned  them 
without  reading." 

At  the  words,  Edwards  stopped  stock-still,  some 
thing  almost  humorous  at  the  back  of  the  suffering 
gaze  he  fastened  on  my  face.  I  met  it  steadily,  then 
answered  Vandeman, 

"Doesn't  make  any  difference  to  anybody  that  those 
books  are  burned.  I'd  read  them;  I  know  what  was 
in  them;  and  I  know  that  three  leaves — six  pages — 
covering  the  entries  of  May  31  and  June  I,  1916, 
were  cut  out." 

"But  what  the  deuce,  Boyne?"  Vandeman  wrinkled 
a  smooth  brow.  "What  would  some  leaves  gone  from 
Mr.  Gilbert's  diary  four  years  ago  have  to  do  with 
us  here  to-day — or  even  with  his  recent  death?" 

"Pardon  me,"  I  said  shortly.  "The  matter's  not  as 
old  as  that.  True,  the  stuff  was  written  four  years 
ago ;  it  recorded  happenings  on  those  dates ;  but  the 
ink  that  was  used  in  marking  out  a  run-over  on  the 
next  following  page  was  fresh.  Anyhow,  Mr.  Van 
deman,  we  know  that  a  woman  came  weeping  to  Mr. 
Gilbert  on  the  very  night  of  his  death,  ynly  a  short 
time  before  his  death — as  nearly  as  medical  science 
can  determine  that — and  we  believe  that  she  came  after 
those  leaves  out  of  the  diary,  and  got  them — what 
ever  she  had  to  do  to  secure  them." 


A  MATTER  OF  TASTE  217 

I  was  struck  with  the  difference  in  the  way  these 
two  men  took  inquiry.  Edwards  had  writhed,  changed 
color,  started  to  speak  and  caught  himself  back, 
showed  all  the  agony  of  a  clumsy  criminal  who  dreads 
the  probing  that  may  give  him  away:  temperament; 
the  rotten  spot  in  his  affairs.  Vandeman,  younger, 
not  entangled  with  an  unhappy  married  woman,  sat 
looking  me  in  the  eye,  still  smiling.  The  blow  I  had 
to  deal  him  would  be  harder.  It  concerned  his  bride; 
but  he'd  take  punishment  well.  I  proceeded  to  let  him 
have  it. 

"I  can  see  that  Mr.  Edwards  has  an  idea  what  the 
entries  on  those  pages  covered.  He  has  inadvertently 
shown  me  that  your  wife  was  the  woman  who  came 
and  got  them  from  Thomas  Gilbert  on  the  night  he 
was  murdered." 

At  that  he  turned  on  Edwards,  and  Edwards  an 
swered  the  look  with, 

"I  didn't.  On  my  honor,  Bronse,  I  never  men 
tioned  your  name  or  Ina's.  The  Chinaman  told  him 
that — about  some  woman  coming  that  evening — " 

"Mr.  Vandeman,"  I  broke  in,  "there's  no  use  beat 
ing  about  the  bush.  Chung  recognized  your  wife's 
voice.  She  was  the  woman  who  came  weeping  to  get 
those  diary  leaves." 

He  took  that  with  astonishing  quietness,  and, 

"Suppose  you  were  shown  that  she  wasn't  out  of 
her  mother's  house?" 

"Wouldn't  stop  me.  Allow  that  her  alibi's  perfect. 
Yet  you  men  have  something.  There's  something 
here  I  ought  to  know." 

"Something  you'll  never  find  out  from  me,"  Jim 


218    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

Edwards'  deep  voice  was  full  of  defiance.  "Bronse, 
I  owe  you  an  apology;  but  you  can  depend  on  me  to 
keep  my  mouth  shut." 

After  a  minute's  consideration  Vandeman  said, 

"I  don't  know  why  we  should  any  of  us  keep  our 
mouths  shut." 

Jim  Edwards  looked  utterly  bewildered  as  the  man 
sat  there,  thinking  the  thing  over,  glanced  up  pleas 
antly  at  me  and  suggested, 

"Edwards  has  a  little  different  slant  on  this  from 
me.  I  don't  know  why  I  shouldn't  state  to  you  ex 
actly  what  happened — right  there  in  Gilbert's  study 
on  the  date  you  mentioned." 

"Oh,  there  did  something  unusual  happen;  and 
you've  just  remembered  it." 

"There  did  something  unusual  happen,  and  I've 
just  remembered  it,  aided  thereto  by  your  questions 
and  Edwards'  queer  looks.  Cheer  up,  old  man;  we 
haven't  all  got  your  southern  chivalry.  From  a  plain, 
commonsense  point  of  view,  what  I  have  to  tell  is  not 
in  the  least  to  my  wife's  discredit.  In  fact,  I'm  proud 
of  her  all  the  way  through." 

Jim  Edwards  came  suddenly  and  nervously  to  his 
feet,  strode  to  the  further  corner  of  the  room  and  sat 
down  at  as  great  a  distance  from  Vandeman  as  its 
dimensions  would  permit.  He  turned  his  face  to  the 
small  window  there,  and  through  all  that  Vandeman 
said,  kept  up  a  steady,  maddening  tattoo  with  his 
fingernails  on  the  sill. 

"This  has  to  do  with  what  I  told  you  the  first  night 
I  ever  talked  with  you,  Boyne.  You  threw  doubt  on 
Thomas  Gilbert's  death  being  suicide.  I  gave  as  a 


A  MATTER  OF  TASTE  219 

reason  for  my  belief  that  it  was,  a  knowledge  and 
conviction  that  the  man's  mind  was  unhinged." 

Edwards'  tattoo  at  the  window  ceased  for  a  minute, 
He  stared,  startled,  at  the  speaker,  then  went  back  to 
it,  and  Vandeman  proceeded, 

"I'm  not  telling  Jim  Edwards  anything  he  doesn't 
know,  and  what  I  say  to  you,  Boyne,  that's  discredit 
able  to  the  dead,  I  can't  avoid.  Here  it  is :  on  the 
evening  of  June  first,  1916,  I  had  dinner  alone  at 
home.  You'll  find,  if  you  look  at  an  old  calendar, 
that  it  falls  on  a  Sunday.  Jim  Edwards  had  dined 
informally  at  the  Thornhills'.  As  he  told  it  to  me 
later,  they  were  all  sitting  out  on  the  side  porch  after 
dinner,  and  nobody  noticed  that  Ina  wasn't  with  them 
until  they  heard  cries  coming  from  somewhere  over 
in  the  direction  of  the  Gilbert  place.  At  my  house, 
I'd  heard  it,  and  we  both  ran  for  the  garage,  where 
the  screams  were  repeated  again  and  again.  We  got 
there  about  the  same  time,  found  the  disturbance  was 
in  the  study,  and  Edwards  who  was  ahead  of  me 
rushed  up  and  hammered  on  its  door." 

Again  Jim  Edwards  stopped  the  nervous  drumming 
of  his  fingers  on  the  window-sill  while  he  stared  at  the 
younger  man  as  at  some  prodigy  of  nature.  Finally 
he  seemed  unable  to  hold  in  any  longer. 

"Hammered  on  the  door!"  he  repeated.  "If  you're 
going  to  turn  out  the  whole  damn'  thing  to  Boyne, 
tell  it  straight ;  door  was  open ;  we  couldn't  have  heard 
a  yip  out  of  Ina  if  it  hadn't  been.  Tom  there  in  full 
sight,  sitting  in  his  desk  chair,  cool  as  a  cucumber, 
letting  her  scream." 

"I'm   telling  this,"   Vandeman   snapped,.     "Gilbert 


220    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

looked  to  me  like  an  insane  man.  Jim,  you're  crazy 
as  he  was,  to  say  anything  else.  Never  supposed  for 
a  minute  you  thought  otherwise — that  poor  girl  there, 
dazed  with  fright,  backed  as  far  away  from  him  as  she 
could  get,  hair  flying,  eyes  wild." 

I  looked  from  one  to  the  other.  What  Edwards  had 
said  of  the  cold,  contemptuous  old  man;  what  Van- 
deman  told  of  the  screaming  girl;  no  answer  to  such 
a  proposition  of  course  but  an  attempted  frame-up. 
To  let  the  bridegroom  get  by  would  best  serve  my 
purpose. 

"All  right,  gentlemen,"  I  said.  "And  now  could 
you  tell  me  what  action  you  took,  on  this  state  of 
affairs?" 

"Action?"  Vandeman  gave  me  an  uneasy  look. 
"What  was  there  to  do?  Told  you  I  thought  the 
man  was  crazy." 

"And  you,  Edwards?" 

"Let  it  go  as  Bronse  says.  I  cut  back  to  Mrs. 
Thornhill's,  scouting  to  see  what  the  chance  was  for 
getting  Ina  in  without  the  family  knowing  anything." 

"That's  right,"  Vandeman  said.  "I  stayed  to  fetch 
her.  She  was  fine.  To  the  last,  she  let  Gilbert  save 
his  face — actually  send  her  home  as  though  she  were 
the  one  to  blame.  Right  then  I  knew  I  loved  her — 
wanted  her  for  my  wife.  On  the  way  home,  I  asked 
her  and  was  accepted." 

"In  spite  of  the  fact  that  she  was  engaged  to  Worth 
Gilbert?" 

"Boyne,"  he  said  impatiently,  "what's  the  matter 
with  you?  Haven't  I  made  you  understand  what 
happened  there  at  the  study?  She  had  to  break  off 


A  MATTER  OF  TASTE  221 

with  the  son  of  a  man  like  that.  Ina  Thornhill 
couldn't  marry  into  such  a  breed." 

"Slow  up,  Vandeman!"  Edwards'  tone  was  soft, 
but  when  I  looked  at  him,  I  saw  a  tawny  spark  in  his 
black  eyes.  Vandeman  fronted  him  with  the  flam 
boyant  embroidered  monogram  on  his  shirt  sleeve, 
the  carefully  careless  tie,  the  utterly  good  clothes,  and, 
most  of  all,  at  the  moment,  the  smug  satisfaction  in 
his  face  of  social  and  human  security.  I  thought  of 
what  that  Frenchman  says  about  there  being  nothing 
so  enjoyable  to  us  as  the  troubles  of  our  friends. 
"Needn't  think  you  can  put  it  all  over  the  boy  when 
he's  not  here  to  defend  himself — jump  on  him  because 
he's  down!  Tell  that  your  wife  discarded  him — cast 
him  off — for  disgraceful  reasons!  Damnitall!  You 
and  I  both  heard  Tom  giving  her  her  orders  to  break 
with  his  son,  she  sniffling  and  hunting  hairpins  over 
the  floor  and  promising  that  she  would." 

"Cut  it  out!"  yelled  Vandeman,  as  though  some 
one  had  pinched  him.  "I  saw  nothing  of  the  sort 
I  heard  nothing  of  the  sort.  Neither  did  you." 

I  think  they  had  forgotten  me,  and  that  they  remem 
bered  at  about  the  same  instant  that  they  were  talking 
before  a  detective.  They  both  turned,  mum  and  star 
tled  looking,  Edwards  to  his  window,  Vandeman  to 
a  nervous  brushing  of  his  trouser  edges,  from  which 
he  looked  up,  inquiring  doubtfully, 

"What  next,  Boyne?  Jim's  excited;  but  you  un 
derstand  that  there's  no  animus;  and  my  wife  and  I 
are  entirely  at  your  disposal  in  this  matter." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said. 

"Would  you  like  to  talk  to  her?" 


222    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"I  would." 

"When?" 

"Now." 

"Where?" 

"Here — or  let  the  lady  say." 

Vandeman  gave  me  a  queer  look  and  went  out. 
When  he  was  gone,  I  found  Jim  Edwards  scrabbling 
for  his  hat  where  it  had  dropped  over  behind  the  desk. 
I  put  my  back  against  the  door  and  asked, 

"Is  Bronson  Vandeman  a  fatuous  fool;  or  does  he 
take  me  for  one?" 

"Some  men  defend  their  women  one  way,  and  some 
another.  Let  me  out  of  this,  Boyne,  before  that  girl 
gets  here." 

"She  won't  come  in  a  hurry,"  I  smiled.  "Her  hus 
band's  pretty  free  with  his  promises;  but  more  than 
likely  I'll  have  to  go  after  her  if  I  want  her." 

"Well?"  he  looked  at  me  uncomfortably. 

"Blackmail's  a  crime,  you  know,  Edwards.  A 
woman  capable  of  it,  might  be  capable  of  murder." 

"You've  got  the  wrong  word  there,  Boyne.  This 
wasn't  exactly  blackmail." 

"What,  then?" 

"The  girl — I  never  liked  her — never  thought  she 
was  good  enough  for  Worth — but  she  was  engaged  to 
him,  and — in  this  I  think  she  was  fighting  for  her 
hand." 

He  searched  my  face  and  went  on  cautiously, 

"You  read  the  diaries.  They  must  have  had  com 
plaints  of  her." 

"They  had,"  I  assented. 

"Anything  about  money  ?" 

I  shook  my  head. 


A  MATTER  OF  TASTE  223 

"You  said  there  were  two  entries  gone;  the  first 
would  have  told  you,  I  suppose — Before  we  go  further, 
Boyne,  let  me  make  a  little  explanation  to  you — for  the 
girl's  sake." 

"Shoot,"  I  said. 

"It  was  this  way,"  he  sighed.  "Thornhill,  Ina's 
father,  made  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  a  year  I  would 
say,  and  the  family  lived  it  up.  He  had  a  stroke  and 
died  in  a  week's  time.  Left  Mrs.  Thornhill  with  her 
daughters,  her  big  house,  her  fine  social  position — and 
mighty  little  to  keep  it  up  on.  Ina  is  the  eldest.  She 
got  the  worst  of  it,  because  at  the  first  of  her  being  a 
young  lady  she  was  used  to  having  all  the  money  she 
wanted  to  spend.  The  twins  were  right  on  her  heels; 
the  thing  for  her  to  do  was  to  make  a  good  marriage, 
and  make  it  quick.  But  she  got  engaged  to  Worth; 
then  he  went  to  France.  There  you  were.  He 
might  never  come  back.  Tom  always  hated  her; 
watched  her  like  a  hawk;  got  onto  something  she — 
about — " 

"Out  with  it,"  I  said.  "What?  Come  down  to 
cases." 

"Money."  He  uttered  the  one  word  and  stood 
silent. 

I  made  a  long  shot,  with, 

"Mr.  Gilbert  found  she'd  been  getting  money  from 
other  men — " 

"Borrowing,  Boyne — they  used  the  word  'bor 
rowed,'  "  Edwards  put  in.  "It  was  always  Tom's  way 
to  summon  people  as  though  he  had  a  little  private 
judgment  bar,  haul  them  up  and  lecture  them ;  I 
suppose  he  thought  he  had  a  special  license  in  her 
case." 


224    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"And  she  went  prepared  to  frame  him  and  bluff 
him  to  a  standoff.  Is  that  the  way  you  saw  it  ?" 

"My  opinion — what  I  might  think,"  said  Mr.  James 
Edwards  of  Sunnyvale  ranch,  "wouldn't  be  testimony 
in  a  court  of  law.  You  don't  want  it,  Boyne." 

"Maybe  not,"  I  grunted.  "Perhaps  I  could  make 
as  good  a  guess  as  you  could  at  what  young  Mrs.  Van- 
deman's  capable  of;  a  dolly  face,  and  behind  it  the 
courage  of  hell." 

"Boyne,"  he  said,  as  I  left  the  door  free  to  him, 
"quit  making  war  on  women." 

"Can't,"  I  grinned  and  waved  him  on  out.  "The 
detective  business  would  be  a  total  loss  without  'em." 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A  DINNER  INVITATION 

44T     OOK  what's  after  you,  man,"  Skeet  warned  me 

i  j  from  her  lofty  perch  as  I  went  out  through  the 
big  room  in  quest  of  Ina  Vandeman.  "Better  you 
stay  here.  I  gif  you  a  yob.  Lots  safer — only  run 
the  risk  of  getting  your  neck  broken." 

I  grinned  up  into  her  jolly,  freckled  face,  and  waited 
for  the  woman  who  came  toward  me  with  that  elastic, 
swinging  movement  of  hers,  the  well-opened  eyes 
studying  me,  keeping  all  their  secrets  behind  them. 

"Mr.  Eoyne,"  a  hand  on  my  arm  guided  me  to  a 
side  door;  we  stepped  together  out  on  to  a  small  bal 
cony  that  led  to  the  lawn.  "My  husband  brought  me 
your  message.  Nobody  over  by  the  tennis  court; 
let's  go  and  walk  up  and  down  there." 

Her  fingers  remained  on  my  sleeve  as  we  moved  off ; 
she  emphasized  her  points  from  time  to  time  by  a  slight 
pressure. 

"Such  a  relief  to  have  a  man  like  you  in  charge  of 
this  investigation."  She  gave  me  an  intimate  smile; 
tall  as  she  was,  her  face  was  almost  on  a  level  with 
my  own,  yet  I  still  found  her  eyes  unreadable,  none  of 
those  quick  tremors  under  the  skin  that  register  the 
emotions  of  excitable  humanity.  She  remained  a 
handsome,  perfectly  groomed,  and  entirely  unruffled 
young  woman. 

"Thank  you,"  was  all  I  said. 
225 


I 
226    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Mr.  Vandeman  and  I  understand  how  very,  very 
serious  this  is.  Of  course,  now,  neighbors  and  inti 
mates  of  Mr.  Gilbert  are  under  inspection.  Every 
body's  private  affairs  are  liable  to  be  turned  out. 
We've  all  got  to  take  our  medicine.  No  use  feeling 
personal  resentment." 

Fine;  but  she'd  have  done  better  to  keep  her  hands 
off  me.  An  old  police  detective  knows  too  much  of 
the  class  of  women  who  use  that  lever.  I  looked  at 
them  now,  white,  delicate,  many-ringed,  much  more 
expressive  than  her  face,  and  I  thought  them  capable 
of  anything. 

"Here  are  the  names  you'll  want,"  she  fumbled  in 
the  girdle  of  her  gown,  brought  out  a  paper  and  passed 
it  over.  "These  are  the  ones  who  stayed  after  the 
reception,  went  up  to  my  room  with  me,  and  helped 
me  change — or  rather,  hindered  me." 

"The  ones,"  I  didn't  open  the  paper  yet,  just  looked 
at  her  across  it,  "who  were  with  you  all  the  time  from 
the  reception  till  you  left  the  house  for  San  Fran 
cisco?" 

"It's  like  this,"  again  she  smiled  at  me,  "the  five 
whose  names  are  on  that  paper  might  any  one  of  them 
have  been  in  and  out  of  my  room  during  the  time.  T 
can't  say  as  to  that.  But  they  can  swear  that  /  wasn't 
out  of  the  room — because  I  wasn't  dressed.  As  soon 
as  I  changed  from  my  wedding  gown  to  my  traveling 
suit,  I  went  down  stairs  and  we  were  all  together  till 
we  drove  to  San  Francisco  and  supper  at  Tait's,  where 
I  had  the  pleasure  of  meeting  you,  Mr.  Boyne." 

"I  understand,"  I  said.  "They  could  all  speak  for 
you — but  you  couldn't  speak  for  them."  Then  I 
opened  and  looked.  Some  list!  The  social  and 


A  DINNER  INVITATION  227 

financial  elect  of  Santa  Ysobel :  bankers'  ladies;  prune 
kings'  daughters;  persons  you  couldn't  doubt,  or  buy. 
But  at  the  top  of  all  was  Laura  Bowman's  name. 

We  had  halted  for  the  turn  at  the  end  of  the  court. 
I  held  the  paper  before  her. 

"How  about  this  one?  Do  you  think  she  was  in 
the  room  all  the  time  ?  Or  have  you  any  recollection  ?" 

The  bride  moved  a  little  closer  and  spoke  low. 

"Laura  and  the  doctor  were  in  the  middle  of  one  of 
their  grand  rows.  She's  a  bunch  of  temperament. 
Mamma  was  ill ;  the  girls  were  having  to  start  out  with 
only  Laura  for  chaperone;  she  said  something  about 
going  somewhere,  and  it  wouldn't  take  her  long — she'd 
be  back  in  plenty  of  time.  But  whether  she  went  or 
not — Mr.  Boyne,  you  don't  want  us  to  tell  you  our 
speculations  and  guesses?  That  wouldn't  be  fair, 
would  it?" 

"It  wouldn't  hurt  anything,"  I  countered.  "I'll 
only  make  use  of  what  can  be  proven.  Anything  you 
say  is  safe  with  me." 

"Well,  then,  of  course  you  know  all  about  the  situa 
tion  between  Laura  and  Jim  Edwards.  Laura  was 
determined  she  wouldn't  go  up  to  San  Francisco  with 
her  husband — or  if  she  did,  he  must  drive  her  back 
the  same  night.  She  wouldn't  even  leave  our  house  to 
get  her  things  from  home;  the  doctor,  poor  man, 
packed  some  sort  of  bag  for  her  and  brought  it  over. 
When  he  came  back  with  it,  she  wasn't  to  be  found; 
and  she  never  did  appear  until  we  were  getting  into  the 
machine." 

I  listened,  glancing  anxiously  toward  the  skyline  of 
that  little  hill  over  which  Worth  and  Barbara  might 
be  expected  to  appear  almost  any  moment  now.  Then 


228    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

we  made  the  turn  at  the  end  of  the  court,  and  my  view 
of  it  was  cut  off. 

"Laura  and  Jim — they're  the  ones  this  is  going  to 
be  hard  on.  I  do  feel  sorry  for  them.  She's  always 
been  a  problem  to  her  family  and  friends.  A  great 
deal's  been  overlooked.  Everybody  likes  Jim;  but — 
he's  a  southerner ;  intrigue  comes  natural  to  them.'' 

Five  minutes  before  I  had  been  listening  to  Ed 
wards'  pitiful  defense  of  this  girl ;  I  recalled  his 
"scouting"  for  a  chance  to  get  her  home  unseen  and 
save  her  standing  with  her  family.  That  could  be 
classed  as  intrigue,  too,  I  suppose.  We  were  strolling 
slowly  toward  the  clubhouse. 

"I  don't  give  Dr.  Bowman  much,"  I  said  delib 
erately.  A  quick  look  came  my  way,  and, 

"Mr.  Gilbert  was  greatly  attached  to  him.  Every 
body's  always  believed  that  only  Mr.  Gilbert's  influence 
held  that  match  together.  Now  he's  dead,  and  Laura's 
freed  from  some  sort  of  control  he  seemed  to  have 
over  her,  of  course  she  hopes  and  expects  she'll  be 
able  to  divorce  the  doctor  in  peace  and  marry  Jim." 

"No  movement  of  the  sort  yet?" 

She  stopped  and  faced  round  toward  me. 

"Dr.  Bowman — he's  our  family  physician,  you 
know — is  trying  for  a  very  fine  position  away  from 
here,  in  an  exclusive  sanitarium.  Divorce  proceedings 
coming  now  would  ruin  his  chances.  But  I  don't  know 
how  long  he  can  persuade  Laura  to  hold  off.  She's  in 
a  strange  mood;  I  can't  make  her  out,  myself.  She 
disliked  Gilbert ;  yet  his  death  seems  to  have  upset  her 
frightfully." 

"You  say  she  didn't  like  Mr.  Gilbert?" 

"They  hated  each  other.     But — he  was  so  peculiar 


A  DINNER  INVITATION  229 

— of  course  that  wasn't  strange.  Many  people  de 
tested  him.  Bron  never  did.  He  always  forgave  him 
everything  because  he  said  he  was  insane.  Bron  told 
you  my  experience — the  one  that  made  me  break  with 
Worth?" 

She  looked  at  me,  a  level  look ;  no  shifting  of  color, 
no  flutter  of  eyelid  or  throat.  We  were  at  the  club 
house  steps. 

"Here  comes  the  boy  himself,"  I  warned  as  Worth 
and  Barbara,  their  arms  full  of  ferns,  rounded  the  turn 
from  the  little  dip  at  the  side  of  the  grounds  where 
the  stream  went  through.  We  stood  and  waited  for 
them. 

"You  two,"  Ina  spoke  quickly  to  them.  "Mr. 
Boyne's  just  promised  to  come  over  to  dinner  to-mor 
row  night."  Her  glance  asked  me  to  accept  the  fib  and 
the  invitation.  "I  want  both  of  you." 

"I'm  going  to  be  at  your  house  anyhow,  Ina," 
Barbara  said,  "working  with  Skeet  painting  those  big 
banners  they've  tacked  up  out  in  your  court.  You'll 
have  to  feed  us;  but  we'll  be  pretty  messy.  I  don't 
know  about  a  dinner  party." 

"It  isn't,"  Ina  protested,  smiling.  "It's  just  what 
you  said — feeding  you.  Nobody  there  besides  your 
self  and  Skeet  but  Mr.  Boyne  and  Worth — if  he'll 
come." 

"I  have  to  go  up  to  San  Francisco  to-morrow,"  said 
Worth. 

"But  you'll  be  back  by  dinner  time?"  Ina  added 
quickly. 

"If  I  make  it  at  all." 

"Well,  you  can  come  just  as  you  are,  if  you  get  in 
at  the  last  minute,"  she  said,  and  he  and  Barbara  went 


230    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

on  to  carry  their  ferns  in.  When  they  were  out  of 
hearing,  she  turned  and  floored  me  with, 

"Mr.  Vandeman  has  forbidden  me  to  say  this  to 
you,  but  I'm  going  to  speak.  If  Worth  doesn't  have 
to  be  told  about  me — and  his  father — I'd  be  glad." 

"If  the  missing  leaves  of  the  diary  are  ever  found," 
I  came  up  slowly,  "he'd  probably  know  then."  I 
watched  her  as  I  said  it.  What  a  strange  look  of 
satisfaction  in  the  little  curves  about  her  mouth  as  she 
spoke  next : 

"Those  leaves  will  never  be  found,  Mr.  Boyne.  I 
burned  them.  Mr.  Gilbert  presented  them  to  me  as  a 
wedding  gift.  He  was  insane,  but,  intending  to  take 
his  own  life,  I  think  even  his  strangely  warped  con 
science  refused  to  let  a  lying  record  stand  against  an 
innocent  girl  who  had  never  done  him  any  harm." 

We  stood  silent  a  moment,  then  she  looked  round  at 
me  brightly  with, 

"You're  coming  to  dinner  to-morrow  night?  So 
glad  to  have  you.  At  seven  o'clock.  Well — if  this  is 
all,  then  ?"  and  at  my  nod,  she  went  up  the  steps,  turn 
ing  at  the  side  door  to  smile  and  wave  at  me. 

What  a  woman!  I  could  but  admire  her  nerve.  If 
her  alibi  proved  copper-fastened,  as  something  told  me 
it  would,  I  had  no  more  hope  of  bringing  home  the 
murder  of  Thomas  Gilbert  to  Mrs.  Bronson  Vandeman 
of  Santa  Ysobel  than  I  had  of  readjusting  the  stars  in 
their  courses ! 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A  BIT  OF  SILK 

I  MUST  admit  that  when  Worth  and  Barbara 
walked  up  and  found  me  talking  to  Ina  Vandeman, 
I  felt  caught  dead  to  rights.  The  girl  gave  me  one 
long,  steady  look.  I  was  afraid  of  Barbara  Wallace's 
eyes.  Then  and  there  I  relinquished  all  idea  of  having 
her  help  in  this  inquiry.  She  could  have  done  it  much 
better  than  I,  attracted  less  attention — but  no  matter. 
The  awkward  moment  went  by,  however;  I  heaved  a 
sigh  of  relief  as  they  carried  their  ferns  on  into  the 
clubhouse,  and  Mrs.  Vandeman  left  me  with  gracious 
good-bys. 

I  had  the  luck  to  cover  my  first  inquiry  by  getting 
a  lift  into  town  from  Mrs.  Ormsby,  young  wife  of  the 
president  of  the  First  National.  Alone  with  me  in  her 
little  electric,  she  answered  every  question  I  cared  to 
put,  and  said  she  would  be  careful  to  speak  to  no  one 
of  the  matter.  Three  others  I  caught  on  the  wing, 
as  it  were,  busy  at  blossom  festival  affairs;  the  fete 
only  one  day  off  now,  things  were  moving  fast.  I 
glimpsed  Dr.  Bowman  down  town  and  thought  he 
rather  carefully  avoided  seeing  me.  His  wife  was 
taking  no  part;  the  word  went  that  she  was  not  able; 
but  when  I  called  at  what  had  been  the  Wallace  and 
was  now  the  Bowman  home,  I  found  the  front  door 
open  and  two  ladies  in  the  hall. 

One  of  them,  Laura  Bowman  herself,  came  flying 
231 


232    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

out  to  meet  me — or  rather,  it  seemed,  to  stop  me,  with 
a  face  of  dismay. 

"•My  mother's  here,  Mr.  Boyne!"  Her  hand  was 
clammy  cold ;  she'd  been  warned  of  me  and  my  errand. 
"I  don't  want  to  take  you  through  that  way." 

I  stood  passive,  and  let  her  do  the  saying. 

"Around  here,"  she  faltered.  "We  can  go  in  at  the 
side  door." 

We  skirted  the  house  by  a  narrow  walk;  she  was 
leading  the  way  by  this  other  entrance,  when,  spread 
out  over  its  low  step,  blocking  our  progress,  I  saw  a 
small  Japanese  woman  ripping  up  a  satin  dress. 

"Let  us  pass,  Oomie." 

"Wait.  We  can  talk  as  well  here,"  I  checked  her. 
We  moved  on  a  few  paces,  out  of  earshot  of  the  girl ; 
but  before  I  could  put  my  questions,  she  began  with  a 
sort  of  shattered  vehemence  to  protest  that  Thomas 
Gilbert's  death  was  suicide. 

"It  was,  Mr.  Boyne.  Anybody  who  knew  the 
scourge  Thomas  had  been  to  those  he  must  have  loved 
in  his  queer,  distorted  way,  and  any  one  who  loved 
them,  could  believe  he  might  take  his  own  life." 

"You  speak  freely,  Mrs.  Bowman,"  I  said.  "Then 
you  hated  the  man?" 

"Oh,  I  did!  For  years  past  I've  never  heard  of  a 
death  without  wondering  that  God  took  other  human 
beings  and  let  him  live.  Now  that  he's  killed  himself, 
it  seems  dreadful  to  me  that  suspicion  should  be  cast 
on—" 

"Mrs.  Bowman,"  I  interrupted.  "Thomas  Gilbert's 
death  was  murder.  All  persons  who  could  have  had 
motive  or  might  have  had  opportunity  to  kill  him  will 


A  BIT  OF  SILK  233 

be  under  suspicion  till  the  investigation  clears  them  of 
it.  I'm  now  ascertaining  the  whereabouts  of  Ina  Van- 
deman  that  evening." 

A  shudder  went  through  her;  she  looked  at  me 
feelingly,  twisting  her  hands  together  in  the  way  I 
remembered.  Despite  her  distress,  she  was  very  simple 
and  accessible.  She  gave  me  no  resistance,  admitted 
her  absence  from  the  Thornhill  house  at  about  the  time 
the  party  was  ready  to  start  for  San  Francisco — 
Edwards,  of  course.  I  got  nothing  new  here.  She 
seemed  thankful  enough  to  go  into  the  house  when  I 
released  her. 

I  lingered  a  moment  to  have  a  word  with  the  little 
Japanese  woman  on  the  step. 

"How  long  you  work  this  place?" 

"Two  hours  af-noon,  every  day,"  ducking  and 
giggling  like  a  mechanical  toy. 

Just  a  piece-worker,  not  a  regular  servant. 

"Pretty  dress,"  I  touched  the  satin  on  the  step. 
"Whose?" 

"Mine."  Grinning,  she  spread  a  breadth  out  over 
her  knees.  "Lady  no  like  any  more.  Mine."  It  was 
a  peculiar  shade  of  peacock  blue;  unless  I  was  mis 
taken,  the  one  Mrs.  Bowman  had  worn  that  night  at 
Tait's. 

"Hello — what's  this?"  I  bent  to  examine  a  small 
hole  in  the  hem  of  that  breadth  Oomie  was  so  delight 
edly  smoothing. 

"O-o-o-o!  I  think  may-may  burn'm.  Not  like 
any  more." 

There  was  a  small  round  hole.  Just  so  a  cigarette 
might  have  seared — or  a  bullet. 


234    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Not  can  use,"  I  said  to  Oomie,  indicating  the 
injured  bit.  "Cut  that  off.  Give  me."  And  I  laid 
a  silver  dollar  on  the  step. 

Giggling,  the  little  brown  woman  snipped  out  the  bit 
of  hem  and  handed  it  to  me.  I  glanced  up  from  tuck 
ing  it  into  my  pocket,  and  saw  Laura  Bowman's  white 
face  staring  at  me  through  the  glass  of  that  side  entry 
door. 

A  suggestive  lead,  certainly;  but  it's  my  way  to 
follow  one  lead  at  a  time :  I  went  on  to  the  Thornhill 
place. 

Everybody  there  would  know  my  errand;  for 
though,  with  taste  I  could  but  admire,  Ina  had  put  no 
name  of  any  member  of  the  family  on  her  list,  she  of 
course  expected  me  to  call  on  them,  and  would  never 
have  let  her  sisters  leave  the  country  club  without  a 
warning. 

The  three  were  just  taking  their  hats  off  in  the  hall 
when  I  arrived.  I  did  my  questioning  there,  not 
troubling  to  take  them  separately.  Cora  and  Ernes 
tine,  a  well  bred  pair  of  Inas,  without  her  pep,  perhaps 
a  shade  less  good  looking,  made  their  replies  with  none 
of  the  usual  flutter  of  feminine  curiosity  and  excite 
ment,  then  went  on  in  the  living  room.  Skeet  of 
course  was  as  practical  and  brief  as  a  sensible  boy. 

"I  don't  know  whether  she's  fit  to  see  you,"  she 
said  when  I  spoke  of  her  mother.  And  on  the  instant, 
Ina  Vandeman's  clear,  high  voice  called  down  the  stair. 

"Bring  Mr.  Boyne  up — now." 

Skeet  stepped  aside  for  me  to  pass.  I  suppose  I 
looked  as  startled  as  I  felt,  for  on  my  way  to  the 
house,  I  had  seen  Mrs.  Vandeman  drive  past  toward 


A  BIT  OF  SILK  235 

town.  I  stood  there  at  a  loss,  and  finally  said  aim 
lessly, 

"Your  sister  thinks  it's  all  right?" 

"My  sister?"  Skeet  wrinkled  her  brows  at  me,  and 
glanced  to  where  the  twins  were  in  sight  in  the  living 
room.  "That  was  mother  herself  who  called  you." 

All  the  way  up  the  stairs,  Skeet  following,  I  was 
trying  to  swing  my  rather  heavy  wits  around  to  take 
advantage  of  this  new  development.  So  far,  Ina  Van- 
deman's  voice,  imitated  by  Barbara  Wallace,  and  rec 
ognized  by  Chung  and  Jim  Edwards,  possibly  by 
Worth,  had  been  my  lead  in  this  direction.  If  more 
than  one  woman  spoke  in  that  voice — where  would  it 
take  me? 

I'd  got  no  adjustment  before  I  was  ushered  into  a 
large  dim  room,  and  confronted  by  a  figure  in  a  re 
clining  chair  by  the  window.  Here,  in  spite  of  years 
and  illness,  were  the  same  good  looks  and  thorough 
bred  courage  that  seemed  to  characterize  the  women 
of  this  family.  Mrs.  Thornhill  greeted  me  in  Ina 
Vandeman's  very  tones,  a  little  high-pitched  for  real 
sweetness,  full  of  a  dominating  quality,  and  she 
showed  a  composure  I  had  not  expected.  To  Skeet, 
standing  by,  watching  to  see  that  her  mother  didn't 
overdo  in  talking  to  me,  she  said, 

"Dear,  go  down  stairs.  Jane's  left  her  dinner  on 
the  range  and  gone  to  the  grocery.  You  look  after  it 
while  she's  away." 

When  we  were  alone,  she  lay  back  in  her  chair, 
eyes  closed,  or  seemingly  so,  and  made  her  statement. 
She'd  been  in  her  daughter's  room  only  twice  between 
the  reception  and  that  daughter's  going  away. 


236    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"But  the  room  was  full  of  other  people,"  a  glimmer 
between  lashes.  "I  could  give  you  the  names  of  those 
others." 

"Thank  you,"  I  said.  "Mrs.  Vandeman  has  already 
done  that.  I've  seen  them  all." 

"You've  seen  them — all?"  a  long,  furtively  drawn 
breath.  Then  her  eyes  flashed  open  and  fixed  them 
selves  on  me.  Relief  was  there,  yet  something 
stricken,  as  they  traveled  over  me  from  my  gray 
thatch  to  my  big  feet. 

"Now,  Mrs.  Thornhill,"  I  said,  "aside  from  those 
two  visits  to  your  daughter's  room,  where  were  you 
that  evening?" 

A  slow  flush  crept  into  her  thin  cheeks.  The  un 
readable  eyes  that  were  traveling  over  Jerry  Boyne 
stopped  suddenly  and  held  him  with  a  quiet  stare. 

"I  understood  it  was  my  daughter's  movements  on 
that  evening  you  wished  to  trace,  Mr.  Boyne,"  she 
said  slowly.  "It  would  be  difficult  to  trace  mine. 
Really,  I  had  so  much  on  my  hands  with  the  reception 
and  inefficient  help — "  She  broke  off,  her  eyes  never 
leaving  my  own,  even  as  she  added  smoothly,  "It 
would  be  very,  very  difficult." 

There  is  an  effect  in  class  almost  like  the  distinction 
of  race.  These  women  spoke  a  baffling  language; 
their  psychology  was  hard  for  me.  If  there  was  some 
thing  hid  up  amongst  them  that  ought  to  be  uncovered 
by  diplomacy  and  delicate  indirection,  it  would  take  a 
smarter  man  than  the  one  who  stood  in  my  number 
tens  to  do  it. 

"Mrs.  Thornhill,"  I  said,  "you  did  leave  the  house. 
You  went  to  Mr.  Gilbert's  study.  The  shot  that  killed 
him  left  you  a  nervous  wreck,  so  that  you  can't  hear 


A  BIT  OF  SILK  237 

a  tire  blow-out  without  reenacting  in  your  mind  the 
scene  of  that  murder.  You'll  talk  now." 

"You  think  I  will?  Talk  to  you?"  very  low  and 
quiet,  eyes  once  more  closed. 

"Why  not?  It's  got  to  come;  here  in  your  own 
home,  with  me — or  I'll  have  to  put  you  where  you'll 
be  forced  to  answer  questions." 

"Oh,  you  threaten  me,  do  you?"  Her  eyes  flashed 
open,  and  looked  at  me,  hard  as  flint.  "Very  well. 
I'll  answer  no  questions  as  to  what  happened  on  the 
evening  of  Thomas  Gilbert's  death,  except  in  the 
presence  of  Worth  Gilbert,  his  son." 

My  retirement  down  the  Thornhill  stairs,  made  with 
such  dignity  as  I  could  muster,  was  in  fact,  a  panic 
flight.  Halfway,  Cora  Thornhill  all  but  finished  me 
by  looking  out  from  the  living  room,  and  calling  in 
Ina  Vandeman's  voice, 

"Erne,  show  Mr.  Boyne  out,  won't  you?" 

Ernestine  completed  the  job  when  she  answered — 
in  Ina  Vandeman's  voice,  also — 

"Yes,  dear;  I  will."  It  was  only  the  scraps  of  me 
that  she  swept  out  through  the  front  door. 

I  stood  on  the  porch  and  mopped  my  brow.  Across 
there  at  the  Gilbert  place  was  Worth  himself,  charg 
ing  around  the  grounds  with  Vandeman  and  a  lot  of 
other  decorators,  pruning  shears  in  hand,  going  for  a 
thicket  of  bamboos  that  shut  off  the  vegetable  garden. 
At  one  side  Barbara  stood  alone,  looking,  it  seemed 
to  me,  rather  depressed.  I  made  for  her.  She  met 
me  with, 

"I  know  what  you've  been  doing.  Skeet  came  to 
me  about  it  while  Ina  was  phoning  home  from  the 
country  club." 


238    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Well — she  should  worry!  I've  just  finished  with 
her  list.  Got  an  unbreakable  alibi." 

"She  would  have,"  Barbara  said  listlessly.  "She 
wasn't  at  the  study  that  evening." 

"Huh!     I  worked  on  your  tip  that  she  was." 

Barbara  had  pulled  off  the  little  stitched  hat  she 
wore;  yet  the  deep  flush  on  her  cheeks  was  neither 
from  sun  nor  an  afternoon's  hard  work.  It,  and  the 
quick  straightening  of  her  figure,  the  lift  of  her  chin, 
had  to  do  with  me  and  my  activities. 

"Mr.  Boyne,"  the  black  eyes  came  around  to  me  with 
a  flash,  "do  you  suspect  me  of  trying  to  pay  off  a 
spite  on  Ina  Vandeman?" 

"Good  Lord — no!"  I  exploded.  "And  anyhow, 
I've  just  found  that  what  you  imitated  and  Chung 
recognized,  might  as  well  have  been  the  mother's  voice 
as  the  daughter's." 

"Yes,"  she  assented.  "Any  one  of  the  family — 
under  stress  of  emotion."  Then  suddenly,  "And  why 
do  I  tell  you  that?  You'll  not  get  from  it  what  I 
do.  I  ought  never  to  have  mixed  up  my  kind  of 
mental  work  with  other  people's.  I'd  promised  my 
own  soul  that  I  would  never  make  another  deduction. 
Then  Worth  came  and  asked  me — that  night  at  Tait's. 
I  might  say  now  that  I  never  will  any  more.  .  .  ." 
She  broke  off,  storm  in  her  eyes  and  in  her  voice  as 
she  finished,  "But  I  suppose  if  he  wanted  me  to  again 
— I'd  make  a  little  fool  of  myself  for  his  amusement 
just  as  I  did  this  time  and  have  done  all  these  other 
times!" 

"I'll  not  ask  anything  more  of  you,  Barbara,"  I 
said  to  her  hastily,  confused  and  abashed  before  the 
glimpse  she'd  given  me  of  her  heart.  "Except  that 


A  BIT  OF  SILK  239 

I  beg  you  to  stay  good  friends  with  Cummings.  That 
man  hates  Worth.  If  you  turned  him  down  now— 
say,  for  the  ball,  or  anything  like  that — he'd  be  twice 
as  hard  for  us  to  handle.  Keep  him  a  passive  enemy 
instead  of  an  active  one,  as  long  as  he  seems  to  find 
it  necessary  to  hang  around  Santa  Ysobel." 

"You  know  what's  holding  Mr.  Cummings  here, 
don't  you?"  She  glanced  somberly  past  the  bamboo 
gatherers  to  where  we  saw  a  gray  corner  of  the  study 
with  its  pink  ivy  geranium  blossoms  atop.  "Mr.  Cum 
mings  is  held  here  by  two  steel  bolts — the  bolts  on 
those  study  doors.  Until  he  finds  how  they  can  be 
moved  through  an  inch  of  planking — he'll  not  leave 
Santa  Ysobel." 

She'd  put  it  in  a  nutshell.  And  I  couldn't  let  him 
beat  me  to  it.  Fd  got  to  get  the  jump  on  him. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE   MAGNET 

I  HAD  all  set  for  next  morning:  my  roadster  at 
Capehart's  for  repair,  old  Bill  tipped  off  that  I 
didn't  want  any  one  but  Eddie  Hughes  to  work  on  it ; 
and  to  add  to  my  satisfaction,  there  arrived  in  my 
daily  grist  from  the  office,  the  report  that  they  had 
Skeels  in  jail  at  Tiajuana. 

"Well,  Jerry,  old  socks,"  Worth  hailed  my  news  as 
I  followed  out  to  his  car  where  he  was  starting  for 
San  Francisco,  and  going  to  drop  me  at  the  Capehart 
garage,  "Some  luck!  If  Skeels  is  in  jail  at  Tiajuana, 
and  what  I'm  after  to-day  turns  out  right,  we  may 
have  both  ends  of  the  string." 

Pink-and-white  were  the  miles  of  orchards  sur 
rounding  Santa  Ysobel,  pink-and-white  nearly  all  the 
dooryards,  every  tree  its  own  little  carnival  of  bloom 
with  bees  for  guests.  Already  the  streets  were  full 
of  life,  double  the  usual  traffic.  As  we  neared  the 
Capehart  cottage,  on  its  quiet  side  street  about  half 
a  block  from  the  garage,  there  was  Barbara  under  the 
apple  boughs  at  the  gate,  talking  to  some  man  whose 
back  was  to  us.  She  bowed ;  I  answered  with  a  wave 
toward  the  garage;  but  Worth  scooted  us  past  with 
out,  I  thought,  once  glancing  her  way,  sent  the  road 
ster  across  Main  where  he  should  have  stopped  and 
let  me  out,  went  on  and  into  the  highway  at  a  clip 
which  rocked  us. 

240 


THE  MAGNET  241 

"Was  that  Cummings?"  holding  my  hat  on.  No 
answer  that  I  could  hear,  while  we  made  speed  toward 
San  Francisco.  And  still  no  word  was  spoken  until 
we  had  outraged  the  sensibilities  of  all  whose  bad 
luck  it  was  to  meet  us,  those  whom  we  passed  going 
at  a  more  reasonable  pace,  scared  a  team  of  work 
horses  into  the  ditch,  and  settled  down  to  a  steady 
whiz. 

We  were  getting  away  from  Santa  Ysobel  a  good 
deal  further  and  a  good  deal  faster  than  I  felt  I  could 
afford.  I  took  a  chance  and  remarked,  to  nobody  in 
particular,  and  in  a  loud  voice, 

"I  asked  Barbara  not  to  make  a  break  with  Cum 
mings;  it  would  be  awkward  for  us  now  if  she  did." 

"Break?"     Worth  gave  me  back  one  of  my  words. 

"Yes.  I  was  afraid  she  might  throw  him  down 
for  the  carnival  ball." 

Without  comment  or  reply,  he  slowed  gently  for 
the  big  turn  where  the  Medlow  road  comes  in,  swept 
a  handsome  circle  and  headed  back.  Then  he  re 
marked, 

"Thought  I'd  show  you  what  the  little  boat  could 
do  under  my  management.  Eddie  had  her  in  fair 
shape,  but  I've  tuned  her  up  a  notch  or  two  since." 

I  responded  with  proper  enthusiasm,  and  would 
have  been  perfectly  willing  to  be  let  out  at  Main  Street. 
But  he  turned  the  corner  there,  ran  on  to  the  garage, 
jumped  out  and  followed  me  in.  Bill,  selling  some 
used  tires  to  a  customer  in  the  office,  nodded  and  let 
us  go  past  to  where  my  machine  stood.  We  heard 
voices  back  in  the  repair  shop  and  a  hum  of  swift  whir 
ring  shafts  and  pulleys.  Worth  kept  with  me.  It  em 
barrassed  me — made  me  nervous.  It  was  as  though  he 


242    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

had  some  notion  of  my  purpose  there.  Hughes,  at 
his  lathe,  caught  sight  of  us  and  growled  over  his 
shoulder, 

"Yer  machine's  ready." 

This  wouldn't  do.     I  stepped  to  the  door,  with, 

"Fixed  the  radiator,  did  you?" 

"Sure.  Whaddye  think?"  Hughes  was  at  work 
on  something  for  a  girl;  she  perched  at  one  end  of  his 
bench,  swinging  her  feet.  Worth,  behind  me,  touched 
my  shoulder,  and  I  saw  that  the  girl  over  there  was 
Barbara  Wallace. 

She  looked  up  at  us  and  smiled.  The  sun  slanting 
through  dirt  covered  windows,  made  color  effects  on 
her  silken  black  hair.  Eddie  gave  us  another  scowl 
and  went  on  with  his  work. 

"Hello,  Bobs,"  Worth's  greeting  was  casual. 
"Thought  I'd  stop  and  tell  you  I  was  on  my  way — 
you  know."  A  glance  of  understanding  passed  be 
tween  them.  "Better  come  along?" 

"I'd  like  to,"  she  smiled.  "You'll  be  back  by  din 
ner  time.  If  it  wasn't  the  last  day,  and  I  hidn't 
promised — " 

Neither  of  them  in  any  hurry. 

"Hughes,"  I  said,  "there's  another  thing  needs  do 
ing  on  that  car  of  mine — " 

"Can't  do  nothing  at  all  till  I  finish  her  job,"  he 
shrugged  me  off. 

"All  right,"  and  I  stepped  through  into  the  grassy 
back  yard,  put  a  smoke  in  my  face,  and  began  walking 
up  and  down,  my  glance,  each  time  I  turned,  en 
countering  that  queer  bunch  inside:  Worth,  hands 
in  pockets ;  the  chauffeur  he  had  discharged — and  that 
I  was  waiting  to  get  for  murder — bending  at  his  vise ; 


THE  MAGNET  243 

Barbara's  shining-  dark  head  close  to  the  tousled  un- 
kemptness  of  his  poll,  as  she  explained  to  him  the 
pulley  arrangement  needed  to  raise  and  anchor  the 
banner  she  and  Skeet  were  painting. 

Suddenly,  at  the  far  end  of  my  beat,  I  was  brought 
up  by  a  little  outcry  and  stir.  As  I  wheeled  toward 
the  door,  I  saw  Bobs  and  Worth  in  it,  apparently 
wrestling  over  something.  Laughing,  crying,  she  hung 
to  his  wrist  with  one  hand,  the  other  covering  one  of 
her  eyes. 

"Let  me  look!"  he  demanded.  "I  won't  touch  it, 
if  you  don't  want  me  to.  You  have  got  something  in 
there,  Bobs." 

But  when  she  reluctantly  gave  him  his  chance,  he 
treacherously  went  for  her  with  a  corner  of  his  hand 
kerchief  in  the  traditional  way,  and  she  backed  off, 
uttering  a  cry  that  fetched  Hughes  around  from  the 
lathe,  roaring  at  Worth,  above  the  noise  of  the  machin 
ery, 

"What's  the  matter  with  her?" 

"Steel  splinter — in  her  eye,"  Worth  shouted. 

With  a  quick  oath,  the  belt  pole  was  thrown  to  stop 
the  lathe;  down  the  length  of  the  shop  to  the  scrap 
heap  of  odds  and  ends  at  the  rear  Hughes  raced,  re 
turning  with  a  bit  of  metal  in  his  hand.  Barbara 
was  backed  against  the  bench,  her  eyes  shut,  and  tears 
had  begun  to  flow  from  under  the  lids. 

"Now,  Miss  Barbie,"  Hughes  remonstrated.  "You 
let  me  at  that  thing.  This'll  pull  it  out  and  never 
touch  you."  I  saw  it  was  a  horse-shoe  magnet  he 
carried. 

"Do  you  think  it  will?" 

"Sure,"  and  Eddie  approached  the  magnet  to  her 


244   THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

face.  "It  won't  hurt  you  a-tall.  She'll  begin  to  pull 
before  she  even  touches.  Now,  steady.  Want  to 
come  as  near  contact  as  I  can.  Don't  jump.  .  .  . 
Hell!" 

Barbara  had  sprung  away  from  him.  But  for 
Worth's  quick  arm,  she  would  have  been  into  the 
machines. 

"No!"  she  said  between  locked  teeth,  tears  on  her 
cheeks,  "I  can't  let  him." 

"Why,  Barbara!"  I  said,  astonished;  and  poor 
Eddie  almost  blubbered  as  he  begged, 

"Aw,  come  on,  Miss  Barbie.  It  was  my  fault  in  the 
first  place — leavin'  that  damned  lathe  run.  Yuh  got 
to  let  me — " 

"But  if  it  doesn't  work?" 

"Sure  it'll  work.  Would  I  offer  to  use  it  for  you 
if  I  hadn't  tried  it  out  lots  o'  times — to  pull  splinters 
and—" 

"Give  me  that  magnet,"  Worth  reached  the  long 
arm  of  authority,  got  what  he  wanted,  shouldered 
Hughes  aside,  and  took  hold  of  the  girl  with,  "Quit 
being  a  little  fool,  Barbara.  That  thing's  only  caught 
in  your  lashes  now.  Let  it  get  in  against  the  eye 
ball  and  you'll  have  trouble.  Hold  still." 

The  command  was  not  needed.  Without  a  word, 
Barbara  raised  her  face,  put  her  hands  behind  her 
and  waited. 

Delicately,  Worth  caught  the  dark  fringe  of  the 
closed  eye,  turned  back  the  lid  so  that  he  could  see 
just  what  he  was  at,  brought  the  horse-shoe  almost 
in  touch,  then  drew  it  away — and  there  was  the  tiny 
steel  splinter  that  could  have  cost  her  sight,  clinging 
to  the  magnet's  edge. 


THE  MAGNET  245 

"Here  you  are,"  he  smiled.  "Wasn't  that  enough 
to  call  you  names  for?" 

"You  didn't  call  me  names,"  dabbing  away  with  a 
small  handkerchief.  "You  told  me  to  quit  being  a 
little  fool.  Maybe  I  will.  How  would  you  like  that  ?" 

Apparently  Hughes  did  not  resent  Barbara's  refus 
ing  his  help  and  accepting  Worth's.  He  went  back 
to  his  vise;  the  two  others  strolled  together  through 
the  doorway  into  the  garage,  talking  there  for  a 
moment  in  quick,  low  tones;  then  Barbara  returned 
to  perch  on  the  end  of  Eddie's  bench,  play  with  the 
magnet  and  watch  him  at  work.  I  lit  up  again  and 
stepped  out. 

I  could  see  Barbara  gather  some  nails,  screws  and 
loose  pieces  of  iron,  hold  a  bit  of  board  over  them, 
and  trail  the  magnet  back  and  forth  along  its  top. 
Though  a  half  inch  of  wood  intervened,  the  metal 
trash  on  the  bench  followed  the  magnet  to  and  fro. 
I  got  nothing  out  of  that  except  that  Barbara  was  still 
a  child,  playing  like  a  child,  till  I  looked  up  suddenly 
to  find  that  she  had  ceased  the  play,  brought  her  feet 
up  to  curl  them  under  her  in  the  familiar  Buddha 
pose,  while  the  busy  hands  were  dropped  and  folded 
before  her.  Her  rebellion  of  yesterday  evening — 
and  now  her  taking  up  the  concentration  unasked — 
she  wouldn't  want  me  to  notice  what  she  was  doing; 
I  ducked  out  of  sight.  I  had  walked  up  and  down 
that  yard  a  half  dozen  times  more,  when  over  me 
with  a  rush  came  the  significance  of  those  moving 
bits  of  iron,  trailing  a  magnet  on  the  other  side  of  a 
board.  Three  long  steps  took  me  to  the  door. 

"Hughes,"  I  shouted,  "I'm  taking  my  machine  now. 
Be  back  directly." 


246    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

The  man  granted  without  turning  around.  I  had 
forgotten  Barbara,  but  as  I  was  climbing  into  the 
roadster,  I  heard  her  jump  to  the  floor  and  start  after 
me. 

"Mr.  Boyne!     Wait!     Mr.  Boyne!" 

I  checked  and  sat  grinning  as  she  came  up,  the 
magnet  in  her  hand.  I  reached  for  it. 

"Give  me  that,"  I  whispered.  "Want  to  go  along 
and  see  me  use  it?" 

"No — no — "  in  hushed  protest.     "You're  making  a 

JT  O 

mistake,  Mr.  Boyne." 

"Mistake?  I  saw  what  you  did  in  there.  Said  you 
never  would  again — then  went  right  to  it!  You  sure 
got  something  this  time !  Girl — girl !  You've  turned 
the  trick!" 

"Oh,  no!  You  mustn't  take  it  like  that,  Mr.  Boyne. 
This  is  nothing — as  it  stands.  Just  a  single  unrelated 
fact  that  I  used  with  others  to  concentrate  on.  Wait. 
Do  wait — till  Worth  comes  back,  anyhow." 

"All  right."  I  felt  that  our  voices  were  getting 
loud,  that  we'd  talked  here  too  long.  No  use  of 
flushing  the  game  before  I  was  loaded.  "First  thing 
to  do  is  to  verify  this."  I  felt  good  all  over. 

"Yes,  of  course,"  she  smiled  faintly.  "You  would 
want  to  do  that."  And  she  climbed  in  beside  me. 

I  drove  so  fast  that  Barbara  had  no  chance  to  ques 
tion  me,  though  she  did  find  openings  for  remonstrat 
ing  at  my  speed.  I  dashed  into  the  driveway  of  the 
Gilbert  place  and  came  to  an  abrupt  stop  at  the  doors 
of  the  garage.  And  right  away  I  bumped  up  against 
my  first  check.  I  gripped  the  magnet,  raced  to  the 
study  door  with  it,  she  following  more  slowly  to 


THE  MAGNET  247 

watch  while  I  passed  it  along  the  wooden  panel  where 
the  bolt  ran  on  the  other  side;  and  nothing  doing! 

Again  she  followed  as  I  ran  around  to  the  outside 
door,  opened  up  and  tried  it  on  the  bare  bolt  itself; 
no  stir.  While  she  sat  in  the  desk  chair  at  that  central 
table,  her  elbows  on  its  top,  her  hands  lightly  clasped, 
the  chin  dropped  in  interlaced  fingers,  following  my 
movements  with  very  little  interest,  I  puffed  and 
worked,  opened  a  door  and  tried  to  move  the  bolt 
when  it  wasn't  in  the  socket,  and  felt  like  cursing  in 
disappointment. 

"A  little  oil — "  I  grumbled,  more  to  myself  than 
to  her,  and  hurried  to  the  garage  workbench  for  the 
can  that  would  certainly  be  there.  It  was,  but  I 
didn't  touch  it.  What  I  did  lean  over  and  clutch  from 
where  they  lay  tossed  in  carelessly  among  rubbish  and 
old  spare  parts,  were  three  more  magnets  exactly  the 
same  as  the  one  we  had  brought  from  Capehart's.  I 
sprinted  back  with  them. 

"Barbara,"  I  .called  in  an  undertone.  "Come  here. 
Look." 

Held  side  by  side,  the  four,  working  as  one,  moved 
the  bolts  as  well  as  fingers  could  have  done,  and 
through  more  than  an  inch  of  hard  wood. 

"Yes,"  she  looked  at  it;  "but  that  doesn't  prove 
Eddie  Hughes  the  murderer." 

"No?"  her  opposition  began  to  get  on  my  nerves. 
"I'm  afraid  that'll  be  a  matter  for  twelve  good  men 
and  true  to  settle."  She  stood  silent,  and  I  added, 
"I  know  now  whose  shadow  I  saw  on  the  broken 
panel  of  that  door  there,  the  first  Sunday  night." 

"Oh,  it  was  Eddie's,"  she  agreed  rather  unex 
pectedly. 


248    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"And  he  came  to  steal  the  1920  diary,"  I  supplied. 

"He  came  to  get  a  drink  from  the  cellaret,  and  a 
cigar  from  the  case.  That's  the  use  he  made  of  his 
power  to  move  these  bolts." 

"Until  the  Saturday  night  when  he  killed  his 
employer,  the  man  he  hated,  and  left  things  so  the 
crime  would  pass  as  suicide.  Barbara,  are  you  just 
plain  perverse?" 

Instead  of  answering,  she  went  back  to  the  table, 
got  the  contraption  Hughes  had  made  for  her,  and 
started  as  if  to  leave  me.  On  the  threshold,  she 
hesitated. 

"I  don't  suppose  there's  anything  I  can  say  or  do 
to  change  your  mind,"  her  tone  was  inert,  drained. 
"I  know  that  Eddie  is  innocent  of  this.  But  you  don't 
want  to  listen  to  deductions." 

"Later,"  I  said  to  her,  briskly.  "It'll  keep.  I've 
something  to  do  now." 

"What?  You  promised  Worth  to  make  no  move 
against  Eddie  Hughes  until  you  had  his  permission." 
She  seemed  to  think  that  settled  it.  I  let  her  keep 
the  idea. 

"Run  along,  Barbara,"  I  said,  "get  to  your  paint 
daubing.  I'll  forgive  you  everything  for  deducing — 
well,  discovering,  if  you  like  that  better — about  these 
bolts  and  magnets." 

Skeet  burst  from  the  kitchen  door  of  the  Thorn- 
hill  house,  caught  sight  of  us,  shouted  something  un 
intelligible,  and  came  racing  through  the  grounds 
toward  Vandeman's. 

"Been  waiting  for  me  long,  angel?"  she  called,  as 
Barbara  moved  up  with  a  lagging  step,  then,  waving 
two  pairs  of  overalls,  "Got  pants  for  both  of  us,  honey. 


THE  MAGNET  249 

The  paints  and  brushes  are  over  there.     We'll  make 
short  work  of  that  old  banner,  now." 

Promised  Worth,  had  I?  But  the  situation  was 
changed  since  then.  No  man  of  sense  could  object  to 
my  moving  on  what  I  had  now.  I  locked  the  study 
door,  went  bacK  to  my  roadster,  and  headed  her  up 
town. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

AN  ARREST 

IT  was  a  thankful  if  not  a  joyous  Jerry  Boyne  who 
crossed  the  front  pergola  of  the  Vandeman  bun 
galow  that  evening  in  the  wake  of  Worth  Gilbert, 
bound  for  an  informal  dinner.  The  tall,  unconscious 
lad  who  stepped  ahead  of  me  had  been  made  safe  in 
spite  of  himself.  This  weight  off  my  mind,  I  felt 
kindly  to  the  whole  world,  to  the  man  under  whose 
dining  table  we  were  to  stretch  our  legs,  whose  embar 
rassing  private  affairs  I  had  uncovered.  He'd  taken 
it  well — seconding  his  wile's  dinner  invitation,  meet 
ing  my  eye  frankly  whenever  we  encountered.  My 
mood  was  expansive.  When  Vandeman  himself 
opened  the  door  to  us,  explaining  that  he  was  his  own 
butler  for  the  day,  I  saw  him  quite  other  than  he  had 
ever  appeared  to  me. 

For  one  thing,  here  in  his  own  house — and  this  was 
the  first  time  I  had  ever  been  in  it — you  got  the  man 
with  his  proper  background,  his  suitable  atmosphere. 
The  handsome  living  room  into  which  he  took  us, 
showed  many  old  pieces  of  mahogany,  and  some  of 
the  finest  oriental  stuff  I  ever  saw ;  books  in  cases,  sets 
of  standard  writers,  such  as  people  of  culture  bought 
thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  some  family  pictures  about. 
This  was  Vandeman ;  a  lot  behind  such  a  fellow,  after 
all,  if  he  did  seem  rather  a  lightweight. 

250 


AN  ARREST  251 

Ina  joined  us,  very  beautifully  dressed.  She  also 
showed  the  ability  to  sink  unpleasant  considerations  in 
the  present  moment  of  hospitality.  We  lingered  a 
moment  chatting,  then, 

"Shall  we  go  and  look  at  the  artists  working?"  she 
suggested,  and  led  the  way.  We  followed  out  onto 
a  flagged  terrace  at  the  rear.  A  dozen  great  muslin 
strips  were  tacked  over  the  walls  there,  and  two  small 
figures,  desperate,  smudged,  wearing  the  blue  overalls 
Skeet  Thornhill  had  waved  at  us,  toiled  manfully 
smearing  the  blossom  festival  colors  on  in  lettering 
and  ornamental  designs. 

"Ina!"  Skeet  yawped  at  her  sister,  "Another  dirty, 
low  Irish  trick!  Get  yourself  all  dressed  up  like  a 
sore  thumb,  and  then  show  us  off  in  this  fix !" 

Mutely  Barbara  revolved  on  the  box  she  occupied. 
There  was  fire  in  her  soft  eyes ;  her  color  was  high  as 
her  glance  came  to  rest  on  Worth. 

"Fong  Ling's  nearly  ready  to  serve  dinner,"  said 
Ina  calmly.  "Stop  fussing,  and  go  wash  up." 

"Hello,  Mr.  Boyne."  As  Skeet  passed  me,  she 
wiped  a  paw  on  a  paint  rag  and  offered  it  to  me  with 
out  another  word.  I  got  a  grip  and  a  look  that  told 
me  there  was  no  hangover  with  her  from  that  scene 
yesterday  in  her  mother's  sick-room.  Vandeman  was 
commenting  on  his  depleted  bamboo  clumps. 

"Mine  suffered  worse  than  yours,  Worth.  Fong 
Ling  kicked  like  a  bay  steer  about  our  taking  so  much. 
He's  nursed  the  stuff  for  years  like  a  fond  mother. 
But  we  had  to  have  it  for  that  effect  up  around  the 
orchestra  stand." 

"Then  he's  been  with  you  a  long  time?"  I  caught 
at  the  chance  for  information  on  this  chink — informa- 


252    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

tion  that  I'd  found  it  impossible  to  get  from  the  chink 
himself. 

"Ever  since  I  came  in  here.  Chinamen,  you  know 
— not  like  Japs.  Some  loyalty.  You  can  keep  a  good 
one  for  half  a  lifetime." 

We  strolled  back  to  the  living  room;  the  girls  were 
there  before  us,  Skeet  picking  out  bits  of  plum- 
blossoms  and  bunches  of  cherry  bloom  from  a  great 
bowl  on  the  mantel,  and  sticking  them  in  Barbara's 
dark  hair,  wreath  fashion. 

"Best  we  could  do  at  a  splurge,"  she  greeted  us, 
"was  to  turn  in  our  blouses  at  the  neck." 

"And  what  in  the  world  are  you  doing  to  Barbara?" 
Mrs.  Vandeman  said  sharply.  "Let  her  alone,  Skeet. 
You'll  make  her  look  ridiculous." 

Skeet  stuck  out  her  tongue  at  her  sister,  and  went 
calmly  on,  mumbling  as  she  worked, 

"Hold  'till  'ittle  Barbie  child.  Yook  up  at  pretty 
mans  and  hold  'till." 

Over  the  mantel,  in  front  of  Barbara  as  she  stood, 
her  back  to  us  all,  hung  an  oil  painting — one  of  those 
family  groups — same  old  popper;  same  old  mommer, 
and  a  fat  baby  in  a  white  dress  and  blue  sash.  At 
that,  it  was  good  enough  to  show  that  the  man  had 
some  resemblance  to  Vandeman  as  he  leaned  there  on 
the  mantel  below  it,  rather  encouraging  Skeet's  enter 
prise.  From  the  other  side,  I  could  see  Barbara's 
glance  go  from  man  to  picture. 

"Doesn't  it  look  like  Van,  Barbie?"  Skeet  kept  up 
the  conversation.  "Got  the  same  ring,  and  all.  But 
it  ain't  Van.  Him's  the  tootsie  in  there  with  the  blue 
ribbon  round  his  tummy." 

"I  say,  Skeeter,  lay  off!"     Vandeman  looked  self- 


AN  ARREST  253 

consciously  from  the  painted  ring  in  the  picture  to  the 
real  ring  on  his  own  well  kept  hand  there  on  the 
mantel  edge.  "People  aren't  interested  in  family 
histories." 

"I  am,"  said  Barbara,  unexpectedly.  As  the  gong 
sounded  and  we  all  began  to  move  toward  the  dining 
room,  they  were  still  on  the  subject  and  kept  it  up 
after  we  were  seated. 

Fong  Ling  served  us.  The  bride  had  Worth  on  her 
right,  and  talked  to  him  in  lowered  tones.  Barbara, 
between  Vandeman  and  myself,  continued  to  show  an 
almost  feverish  attention  to  Vandeman.  It  was  plain 
enough  from  where  I  sat  that  nothing  Ina  Vandeman 
could  say  gave  the  Jad  any  less  interest  in  his  plate. 
But  I  suppose  with  a  girl,  the  mere  fact  of  some  other 
girl  being  allowed  to  show  intentions  counts.  Did  the 
flapper  get  what  was  going  on,  as  she  looked  proudly 
across  at  her  handiwork,  and  demanded  of  me, 

"Say,  Mr.  Boyne,  you  saw  how  Ina  tried  to  do  us 
dirt?  And  now,  honest  to  goodness,  hasn't  Barbie 
with  the  plum-blossoms  got  Ina  and  her  artificial 
flowers  skun  a  mile?" 

I  didn't  wonder  that  young  Mrs.  Vandeman  saved 
me  the  necessity  of  answering,  by  taking  her  up. 

"Skeet,  you're  too  outrageous!" 

There  she  sat,  quite  a  beauty  in  a  very  superior 
fashion ;  and  Worth  at  her  side,  was  having  his  atten 
tion  called  to  this  dark  young  creature  across  the  table, 
whose  wonderful  still  fire,  the  white  blossoms  crown 
ing  her  hair,  might  well  have  made  even  a  lovelier  than 
Ina  Vandeman  look  insipid.  And  Worth  did  take  his 
time  admiring  her ;  I  saw  that ;  but  all  he  found  to  say 
was, 


254    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Bobs,  I  suppose  Jerry's  told  you  that  he's  treed 
Clayte  at  Tiajuana?" 

"No,"  said  Barbara,  "he  hasn't  said  a  word.  But 
I'm  just  as  much  surprised  at  Clayte's  being  caught 
as  I  was  at  Skeels  escaping  capture." 

"Say  that  over  and  say  it  slow,"  Vandeman  was 
good  natured.  "Or  rather,  put  it  in  plain  American, 
so  we  all  can  understand." 

"Mr.  Boyne  knows  what  I  mean."  Barbara  gave 
me  a  faint  smile.  "Mr.  Boyne  and  I  add  up  Skeels 
and  Clayte,  and  get  a  different  result.  That's  all." 

"Bobs  doesn't  think  that  Skeels  is  Clayte,  caught  or 
uncaught,"  Worth  said  briefly  and  went  on  eating  his 
dinner.  Apparently  he  didn't  give  a  hang  which  way 
the  fact  turned  out  to  be. 

"Why  don't  you?"  Vandeman  gave  passing  atten 
tion.  She  shook  her  head  and  put  it. 

"Skeels,  at  liberty,  was  quite  possibly  Clayte ;  Skeels 
captured  cannot  be  Clayte.  Mr.  Boyne,  do  you  call 
that  a  paradox?" 

"No — an  unkind  slam  at  a  poor  old  man's  ability  in 
his  profession.  I  started  out  to  find  a  gang;  but  Clayte 
and  Skeels  are  so  exactly  one,  mentally,  morally  and 
physically,  that  I  don't  see  why  we  should  seek  fur 
ther." 

"Back  up,  Jerry,"  Worth  tossed  it  over  at  me.  "Let 
Barbara" — he  didn't  often  use  the  girl's  full  name  that 
way — "give  you  a  description  of  Clayte  before  you're 
so  sure." 

"How  could  I?"  The  girl's  tone  was  defensive. 
"I  never  saw  him." 

"I   want   you,"   Worth   paid   no   attention   to   her 


AN  ARREST  255 

objections,  "to  describe  the  man  you  thought  you  were 
asking  for  that  day  at  the  Gold  Nugget,  when  Jerry 
butted  in,  and  your  ideas  got  lost  in  the  excitement 
about  Skeels.  Deduce  the  description,  I  mean." 

"Deduce  it?"  Barbara  spoke  stiffly,  incredulously, 
her  glance  going  from  Worth  to  the  well-gowned,  well- 
groomed  woman  beside  him.  I  remembered  her  mo 
ment  of  rebellion  yesterday  evening  on  the  lawn,  when 
she  said  so  bitterly  that  if  he  asked  it  again,  she'd  do  it 
again,  as  she  finished,  "Deduce — here?" 

"Here  and  now."  Worth's  laconic  answer  sent  the 
blood  of  healthy  anger  into  her  face,  made  her  eyes 
shine.  And  it  brought  from  Ina  Vandeman  a  petulant, 

"Oh,  Worth,  please  don't  turn  my  dinner  table  into 
a  side-show." 

"Ina,  dear."  Vandeman  raised  his  eyes  at  her,  then 
quite  the  cordial  host  urging  a  guest  to  display 
talent,  "They  say  you're  wonderful  at  that  sort  of 
thing,  and  I've  never  seen  it." 

Barbara  was  mad  for  fair. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  she  spoke  pointedly  to  Vandeman, 
and  left  Worth  out  of  it.  "If  you  think  you'd  really 
enjoy  seeing  me  make  a  side-show  of  Ina's  dinner 
table—" 

She  stopped  and  waited.  Vandeman  played  up  to 
the  situation  as  he  saw  it,  with  one  of  his  ready  smiles. 
Worth  threw  no  life-line.  Ina  didn't  think  it  worth 

• 

while  to  apologize  for  her  rudeness.  Skeet  was  openly 
in  a  twitter  of  anticipation.  There  was  nothing  for 
me  to  do.  A  little  commotion  of  skirts  told  us  that 
she  was  drawing  up  her  feet  to  sit  cross-legged  in  her 
chair. 


256    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"She's  going  to!  Oh,  golly!"  Skeet  chortled. 
"Haven't  seen  Bobsy  do  one  of  those  stunts  since  I 
was  a  che-ild !" 

Arms  down,  hands  clasped,  eyes  growing  bigger, 
face  paling  into  snow,  we  watched  her.  To  all  but 
Vandeman,  this  was  a  more  or  less  familiar  perform 
ance.  They  took  it  rather  as  a  matter  of  course.  It 
was  the  Chinaman,  coming  in  with  the  coffee  tray,  who 
seemed  most  strangely  affected  by  it.  He  stopped 
where  he  was  in  the  doorway,  rigid,  staring  at  our 
girl,  though  with  a  changeful  light  in  his  eye  that 
seemed  to  me  to  shift  between  an  unreasonable  admira 
tion  and  an  unreasonable  fear.  Orientals  are  super 
stitious;  but  what  could  the  fellow  be  afraid  of  in  the 
beautiful  young  thing,  Buddha  posed,  blossoms  in  her 
hair?  The  girl  had  gone  into  her  stunt  with  a  sort  of 
angry  energy.  He  seemed  to  clutch  himself  to  still 
ness  for  the  brief  time  that  it  held.  Only  in  the 
moment  that  she  relaxed,  and  we  knew  that  Barbara 
had  concentrated,  Barbara  was  Barbara  again,  did  he 
move  quietly  forward,  a  decent,  competent  servant, 
stepping  around  the  table,  placing  our  cups. 

"Just  two  facts  to  go  on,"  she  said  coldly.  "My 
results  will  be  pretty  general." 

"Nothing  to  go  on  in  the  way  of  a  description  of 
Clayte,"  I  tried  to  help  her  out.  "I'd  call  that  one 
we  had  of  him  as  near  nothing  as  it  well  could  be." 

"Yes,  the  nothingness  of  it  was  one  of  my  facts," 
she  said,  and  stopped. 

"Let's  hear  what  you  did  get,  Bobs,"  Worth 
prompted;  and  Skeet  giggled,  half  under  her  breath, 

"Speech!     Speech!" 

"At  the  Gold  Nugget — whatever  he  called  himself 


AN  ARREST  257 

there — Edward  Clayte  was  ten  years  younger  than  he 
had  seemed  at  the  bank ;  he  appeared  to  weigh  a  dozen 
pounds  more;  threw  out  his  chest,  walked  with  his 
head  up,  and  therefore  would  have  been  estimated  quite 
a  bit  taller.  This  personality  was  an  opposite  of  the 
other.  Bank  clerk  Clayte  was  demure,  unobtrusive; 
this  man  wore  loud  patterns.  The  bank  clerk  was 
silent ;  this  man  talked  to  every  one  around  him,  tilted 
his  hat  over  one  eye,  smoked  cigars  just  as  those  men 
were  doing  that  day  in  the  lobby ;  acted  like  them,  was 
one  of  them.  In  the  Gold  Nugget,  Clayte  was  a  very 
average  Gold  Nugget  guest — don't  you  see?  Com 
monplace  there,  just  as  the  other  Clayte  had  been 
commonplace  in  a  bank  or  an  office." 

Her  voice  ceased.  On  the  silence  it  left,  Worth 
spoke  up  quietly, 

"Bull's  eye  as  usual,  Bobs.  Every  word  you  say  is 
true.  And  at  the  Gold  Nugget,  his  name  was  Henry 
J.  Brundage.  He  had  room  thirty  on  the  top  floor." 

Skeet  clapped  her  hands,  jumped  up  and  came 
around  the  table  to  kiss  Barbara  on  the  ear,  and  tell  her 
she  was  the  most  wonder  fullest  girl  in  the  world. 

"Hell!"  I  flared  at  Worth.  "Find  that  all  out  to 
day  in  San  Francisco?" 

"No." 

"Oh,  it  was  the  Brundage  clew  that  took  you 
south?" 

"Yep.  Left  Louie  on  the  job  at  the  hotel  while  I 
was  away.  To-day,  I  went  after  Brundage's  auto 
mobile.  Found  he'd  kept  one  in  a  garage  on  Jackson 
"Street." 

"It's  gone,  of  course — and  no  trace,"  Barbara  mur 
mured. 


258    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Gone  since  the  day  of  the  bank  theft,''  Worth 
nodded.  "He  and  the  money  went  in  it." 

"Say/"  I  leaned  over  toward  him,  "wouldn't  it  have 
saved  wear  and  tear  if  you'd  told  me  at  the  first  that 
you  knew  Skeels  couldn't  be  Clayte?" 

"Oh,  but,  Jerry,  you  were  so  sure!  And  Skeels 
wasn't  possible  for  a  minute — never  in  his  little,  pik 
ing,  tin-horn  life!" 

I  don't  believe  I  had  seen  Worth  so  happy  since  he 
was  a  boy,  playing  detective.  I  glanced  around  and 
pulled  myself  up;  we  certainly  weren't  making  our 
selves  very  entertaining  for  the  Vandemans.  There 
they  sat,  at  their  own  table,  like  handsome  figureheads, 
smiling  politely,  pretending  a  decent  interest. 

"All  this  must  be  a  bore  to  you  people,"  I  apolo 
gized. 

"Not  at  all — not  at  all,"  Vandeman  assured  us. 

"Well  then  if  you  don't  mind — Worth,  I'll  go  and 
use  Vandeman's  phone — put  my  office  wise  to  these 
Brundage  clews  of  yours." 

Worth  nodded.  No  social  scruples  were  his.  I  had 
by  no  means  given  up  the  belief  that  Skeels  in  jail  at 
Tiajuana,  would  still  turn  out  to  be  one  of  the  gang. 

I  had  just  got  back  to  the  table  from  my  phoning 
when  the  doorbell  rang;  we  saw  the  big  Chinese  slip 
noiselessly  through  the  rear  into  the  hall  to  answer  it, 
coming  back  a  moment  later,  announcing  in  his 
weighty,  correct  English, 

"Two  gentlemen  calling — to  see  Captain  Gilbert." 

"Ask  for  me?"  Worth  came  to  his  feet  in  surprise. 
"Who  told  them  I  was  here?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  the  Chinaman  spoke  unnecessarily 


AN  ARREST  259 

as  Worth  was  crossing  to  the  door.  "I  did  not  ask 
them  that." 

"Use  the  living  room,  Worth,"  Vandeman  called 
after  him.  "We'll  wait  here." 

With  the  closing  of  the  door,  conversation  lan 
guished.  Even  Skeet  was  quiet  and  seemed  depressed. 
My  ears  were  straining  for  any  sound  from  in  there. 
As  I  sat,  hand  dropped  at  my  side,  I  suddenly  felt 
under  shelter  of  the  screening  tablecloth,  cold,  nervous 
fingers  slipped  into  mine.  Barbara  wasn't  looking  at 
me,  but  I  gave  her  a  quick  glance  as  I  pressed  her 
gripping  small  hand  encouragingly. 

She  was  turned  toward  Vandeman.  Pale  to  the 
lips,  her  great  eyes  fixed  on  the  eyes  of  our  host,  I 
saw  with  wonder  how  he  slowly  stirred  a  spoon  about 
in  his  emptied  coffee  cup,  and  stared  back  at  her  with 
a  face  almost  as  colorless  as  her  own.  The  bride 
glanced  from  one  to  the  other  of  them,  and  spoke 
sharply, 

"What's  the  matter  with  you  two?  You're  not  un 
easy  about  Worth's  callers,  are  you?" 

"No-no-no — "  Vandeman  was  the  first  to  come 
out  of  it,  responding  to  her  voice  a  good  deal  as  if 
she  dashed  cold  water  in  his  face,  his  eyes  breaking 
away  from  Barbara's,  his  lips  parted  in  a  nervous 
smile.  He  ran  a  hand  through  his  hair — an  inelegant 
gesture  for  him  at  table — and  laughed  a  little. 

"We  ought  to  be  in  there,"  Barbara  said  to  me,  a 
curious  stress  in  her  voice. 

"How  funny  you  talk,  Barbie,"  Skeet  quavered. 
"What  do  you  think's  wrong?"  And  Ina  spoke  decid 
edly, 


26o   THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Worth  is  one  person  in  the  world  who  can  cer 
tainly  take  care  of  himself,  and  would  rather  be  let 
alone." 

"If  you  think  there  is  anything  we  should  do — ?" 
Vandeman  began  anxiously,  and  Skeet  took  a  look 
around  at  our  faces  and  fairly  wailed, 

"What  is  it?  What's  the  matter?  What  do  you 
think  they're  doing  to  Worth  in  there,  Barbie?" 

"I'd  think  they  were  arresting  him,"  Barbara  said 
in  a  low,  choked  tone,  "Only  they  don't  know — " 

"Arresting  him !"  I  broke  in  on  her,  startled,  getting 
halfway  to  my  feet;  then  as  remembrance  came  to  me, 
sinking  back  with,  "Certainly  not.  The  murderer  of 
Thomas  Gilbert  is  already  in  the  county  jail.  I 
arrested  Eddie  Hughes  this  morning." 

"You  arrested — Eddie  Hughes!"  It  was  a  cry 
from  Barbara.  The  cold  little  hand  was  jerked  from 
mine.  Twisting  around  in  her  chair,  she  stared  at  me 
with  a  look  that  made  me  cold.  "Then  you've  moved 
those  two  steel  bolts  for  Cummings." 

I  jumped  to  my  feet.  On  the  instant  the  door 
opened,  and  in  it  stood  Worth,  steady  enough,  but  his 
brown  tanned  face  was  strangely  bleached. 

"Jerry,"  he  spoke  briefly.  "I  want  you.  The 
sheriff's  come  for  me." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

MRS.  BOWMAN  SPEAKS 

MIDNIGHT  in  the  sheriff's  office  at  San  Jose. 
And  I  had  to  telephone  Barbara.  She'd  be 
waiting  up  for  my  message.  The  minute  I  heard  her 
voice  on  the  wire,  I  plunged  in: 

"Yes,  yes,  yes;  done  all  I  could.  A  horse  can  do 
no  more.  They've  got  Worth.  I — "  The  words 
stuck  in  my  throat;  but  they  had  to  come  out — "I  left 
him  in  a  cell." 

A  sound  came  over  the  wire ;  whether  speech  or  not, 
it  was  something  I  couldn't  get. 

"He's  taking  it  like  a  man  and  a  soldier,  girl,"  I 
hurried.  "Not  a  word  out  of  him  about  my  having 
gone  counter  to  his  express  orders,  arrested  Hughes, 
and  pulled  this  thing  over  on  us." 

"Oh,  Mr.  Boyne!  Of  course  he  wouldn't  blame 
you.  Neither  would  I.  You  acted  for  what  you 
thought  was  his  good.  The  others — " 

"Vandeman's  already  gone  home.  Tell  you  he 
stood  by  well,  Barbara — that  tailor's  dummy!  Sur 
prised  me.  No,  no.  Didn't  let  Jim  Edwards  come 
with  us;  so  broken  up  I  didn't  want  him  along — only 
hurt  our  case  over  here,  the  way  he  is  now." 

"Your  case?"  she  spoke  out  clearly.  "What  is  the 
situation?" 

"A  murder  charge  against  Worth  on  the  secret  files. 

261 


262    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

Hughes  is  out — Cummings  got  him — took  him,  don't 
know  where.  Can't  locate  him." 

"Do  you  need  to?" 

"Perhaps  not,  Barbara.  What  I  do  need  is  some 
one  who  saw  Thomas  Gilbert  alive  that  night  after 
Worth  left  to  go  back  to  San  Francisco." 

"And  if  you  had  that — some  one?" 

"If  we  could  produce  before  Cummings  one  credible 
witness  to  that,  it  would  mean  an  alibi.  I'd  have 
Worth  out  before  morning." 

"Then,  Mr.  Boyne,  get  to  the  Fremont  House  here  as 
quickly  as  you  can.  Mr.  Cummings  is  there.  Get 
him  out  of  bed  if  you  have  to.  I'll  bring  the  proof 
you  need." 

"But,  child!"  I  began. 

"Don't — waste — time — talking!  How  long  will  it 
take  you  to  get  here?" 

"Half  an  hour." 

"Oh !  You  may  have  to  wait  for  me  a  little.  But 
I'll  surely  come.  Wait  in  Mr.  Cummings'  room." 

Half  past  twelve  when  I  reached  the  Fremont 
House,  to  find  it  all  alight,  its  lobby  and  corridors  surg 
ing  with  the  crowd  of  blossom  festival  guests.  No 
body  much  in  the  bar;  soft  drinks  held  little  interest; 
but  in  the  upper  halls,  getting  to  Cummings'  room,  I 
passed  more  than  one  open  door  where  the  hip-pocket 
cargoes  were  unloading,  and  was  even  hailed  by  name, 
with  invitations  to  come  in  and  partake.  Cummings 
was  still  up.  The  first  word  he  gave  me  was, 

"Dykeman's  here." 

"Glad  of  it,"  I  said.  "Bring  him  in.  I  want  you 
both." 

It  took  a  good  deal  of  argument  before  he  brought 


MRS.  BOWMAN  SPEAKS  263 

the  Western  Cereal  man  from  the  adjoining  room 
where  he  had  evidently  been  just  getting  ready  for  bed. 
He  came  to  the  conference  resentful  as  a  soreheaded 
old  bear. 

"Maybe  you  think  Worth  Gilbert  will  sleep  well  to 
night — in  jail?"  I  stopped  him,  and  instantly  differ 
entiated  the  two  men  before  me.  Cummings  took  it, 
with  an  ugly  little  half  smile;  Dykeman  rumpled  his 
hair,  and  bolstered  his  anger  by  shouting  at  me, 

"This  country'll  go  to  the  dogs  if  we  make  an  exempt 
class  of  our  returned  soldiers.  Break  the  laws — 
they'll  have  to  take  the  consequences,  just  as  a  man 
that  was  too  old  or  too  sickly  to  fight  would  have  to 
take  'em.  If  I'd  done  what  Captain  Gilbert's  done — I 
wouldn't  expect  mercy." 

"You  mean,  if  you'd  done  what  you  say  he's  done," 
I  countered.  ''Nothing  proved  yet." 

"Nothing  proved?"  Dykeman  huddled  in  his  chair 
and  shivered.  Cummings  shook  out  an  overcoat  and 
helped  him  into  it.  He  settled  back  with  a  protesting 
air  of  being  about  to  leave  us,  and  finished  squeakily, 
"Didn't  need  to  prove  that  he  had  Clayte's  suitcase." 

"Good  Lord,  Mr.  Dykeman!  You're  not  lending 
yourself  to  accuse  a  man  like  Worth  Gilbert  of  so 
grave  a  crime  as  murder,  just  because  you  found  his 
ideas  irregular — maybe  reckless — in  a  matter  of 
money?" 

"Don't  answer,  Dykeman!"  Cummings  jumped  in. 
"Boyne's  trying  to  get  you  to  talk." 

The  old  chap  stared  at  me  doubtfully,  then  broke 
loose  with  a  snort, 

"See  here,  Boyne,  you  can't  get  away  from  it;  your 
man  Gilbert  has  embarked  on  a  criminal  career:  mixed 


264   THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

up  in  the  robbery  of  our  bank,  with  Clayte  to  rob  us ; 
had  our  own  attorney  go  through  the  form  of  raising 
money  to  buy  us  off  from  the  pursuit  of  Clayte — " 

"How  about  me?"  I  stuck  in  the  question  as  he 
paused  for  breath.  "Do  you  think  Worth  Gilbert 
would  put  me  on  the  track  of  a  man  he  didn't  want 
found?" 

Cummings  cut  in  ahead  to  answer  for  him, 

"Just  the  point.  You've  not  done  any  good  at  the 
inquiry;  never  will,  so  long  as  you  stand  with  Worth 
Gilbert.  He  needed  a  detective  who  would  believe  in 
him  through  thick  and  thin.  And  he  found  such  a 
man  in  you." 

I  could  not  deny  it  when  Dykeman  yipped  at  me, 

"Ain't  that  true?  If  it  was  anybody  else,  wouldn't 
you  see  the  connection?  Captain  Gilbert  came  here  to 
Santa  Ysobel  that  Saturday  night — as  we've  got  wit 
nesses  to  testify — had  a  row  with  his  father — we've 
got  witnesses  for  that,  too — the  word  money  passed 
between  them  again  and  again  in  that  quarrel — and 
then  the  young  man  had  the  nerve  to  walk  into  our 
bank  next  morning  with  his  father's  entire  holdings  of 
our  stock  in  Clayte's  suitcase — Boyne,  you're  crazy!" 

"Maybe  not,"  I  said,  reckoning  on  something  human 
in  Dykeman  to  appeal  to.  "You  see  I  know  where 
Worth  got  that  suitcase.  It  came  out  of  my  office 
vault — evidence  we'd  gathered  in  the  Clayte  hunt. 
Getting  it  and  using  it  that  way  was  his  idea  of  humor, 
I  suppose." 

"Sounds  fishy."  Dykeman  made  an  uncomfortable 
shift  in  his  chair.  But  Cummings  came  close,  and 
standing,  hands  rammed  down  in  the  pockets  of  his 
coat,  let  me  have  it  savagely. 


MRS.  BOWMAN  SPEAKS  265 

"Evidence,  Boyne,  is  the  only  thing  that  would  give 
you  a  license  to  rout  men  out  at  this  time  of  night — 
new  evidence.  Have  you  got  it?  If  not — " 

"Wait."  I  preferred  to  stop  him  before  he  told  me 
to  get  out.  "Wait."  I  looked  at  my  watch.  In  the 
silence  we  could  hear  the  words  of -a  yawp  from  one 
of  the  noisy  rooms  when  a  passerby  was  hailed : 

"There  she  goes!     There — look  at  the  chickens!" 

A  minute  later,  a  tap  sounded  on  the  door.  Cum- 
mings  stood  by  while  I  opened  it  to  Barbara,  and  a 
slender,  veiled  woman,  taller  by  half  a  head  in  spite  of 
bent  shoulders  and  the  droop  of  weakness  which  made 
the  girl's  supporting  arm  apparently  necessary. 

At  sight  of  them,  Dykeman  had  come  to  his  feet, 
biting  off  an  exclamation,  looking  vainly  around  the 
bare  room  for  chairs,  then  suggesting, 

"Get  some  from  my  room,  Boyne." 

I  went  through  the  connecting  door  to  fetch  a  couple. 
When  I  came  back,  Barbara  was  still  standing,  but  her 
companion  had  sunk  into  the  seat  the  shivering,  un 
comfortable  old  man  offered,  and  Cummings  was 
bringing  a  glass  of  water  for  her.  She  sipped  it,  still 
under  the  shield  of  her  veil.  This  was  never  Ina  Van- 
deman.  Could  it  be  that  Barbara  had  dragged  Mrs. 
Thornhill  from  her  bed?  I  saw  Barbara  bend  and 
whisper  reassuringly.  Then  the  veil  was  swept  back, 
it  caught  and  carried  the  hat  with  it  from  Laura  Bow 
man's  shining,  copper  colored  hair,  and  the  doctor's 
wife  sat  there  ghastly  pale,  evidently  very  weak,  but 
more  composed  than  I  had  ever  seen  her. 

"I'm  all  right  now,"  she  spoke  very  low. 

"Miss  Wallace,"  Dykeman  demanded  harshly. 
"Who  is  this— lady?" 


266   THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"Mrs.  Bowman,"  Barbara  looked  her  employer  very 
straight  in  the  eye. 

"Heh?"  he  barked.  "Any  relation  to  Dr.  Bowman 
— any  connection  with  him?" 

"His  wife."  Cummings  bent  and  mumbled  to  the 
older  man  for  a  moment. 

"Laura,"  Barbara  said  gently,  "this  is  Mr.  Dyke- 
man.  You're  to  tell  him  and  Mr.  Cummings." 

"Yes,"  breathed  Mrs.  Bowman.  "I'll  tell  them 
I'm  ready  to  tell  anybody.  There's  nothing  in  dodg 
ing,  and  hiding,  and  being  afraid.  I'm  done  with  it. 
Now — what  is  it  you  want  to  know?" 

Cummings'  expression  said  plainer  than  words  that 
they  didn't  want  to  know  anything.  They  had  their 
case  fixed  up  and  their  man  arrested,  and  they  didn't 
wish  to  be  disturbed.  She  went  on  quickly,  of  her 
self, 

"I  believe  I  was  the  last  person  who  saw  Mr.  Gilbert 
alive.  I  must  have  been.  I'd  rushed  over  there,  just 
as  Ina  told  you,  Mr.  Boyne,  between  the  reception  and 
our  getting  off  for  San  Francisco." 

"All  this  concerns  the  early  part  of  the  evening," 
put  in  Cummings. 

"Yes — but  it  concerns  Worth,  too.  He  was  there 
when  I  came  in.  ...  It  was  very  painful." 

"The  quarrel  between  Captain  Gilbert  and  his  father 
d'ye  mean?"  Dykeman  asked  his  first  question. 
Mrs.  Bowman  nodded  assent. 

"Thomas  went  right  on,  before  me,  just  as  though 
I  hadn't  been  there.  Then,  when  it  came  my  turn,  he 
would  have  spoken  out  before  Worth  of — of  my  pri 
vate  affairs.  That  was  his  way.  But  I  couldn't  stand 
it.  I  went  with  Worth  out  to  his  machine.  He  had 


MRS.  BOWMAN  SPEAKS  267 

it  in  the  back  road.  We  talked  there  a  little  while, 
and  Worth  drove  away,  going  fast,  headed  for  San 
Francisco." 

"And  that  was  the  last  time  you  saw  Thomas  Gilbert 
alive?"  Cummings  summed  up  for  her. 

"I  hadn't  finished,"  she  objected  mildly.  "After 
Worth  was  gone,  I  went  back  into  the  study  and 
pleaded  with  Thomas  for  a  long  time.  I  pointed  out 
to  him  that  if  I'd  sinned,  I'd  certainly  suffered,  and 
what  I  asked  was  no  more  than  the  right  any  human 
being  has,  even  if  they  may  be  so  unfortunate  as  to  be 
born  a  woman." 

Dykeman  looked  exquisitely  miserable;  but  Cum 
mings  was  only  the  lawyer  getting  rid  of  an  unwanted 
witness,  as  he  warned  her, 

"Not  the  slightest  need  to  go  into  your  personal 
matters,  Mrs.  Bowman.  We  know  them  already. 
We  knew  also  of  your  visit  to  Mr.  Gilbert's  study  that 
night,  and  that  you  didn't  go  there  alone.  Had  the 
testimony  been  of  any  importance  to  us,  we'd  have 
called  in  both  you  and  James  Edwards." 

I  could  see  that  her  deep  concern  for  another  steadied 
Laura  Bowman. 

"How  do  you  know  all  this?"  she  demanded. 
"Who  told  you?" 

"Your  husband,  Doctor  Bowman." 

Up  came  the  red  in  her  face,  her  eyes  shone  with 
anger. 

"He  did  follow  me,  then?  I  thought  I  saw  him 
creeping  through  the  shrubbery  on  the  lawn." 

"He  did  follow  you.  He  has  told  us  of  your  being 
at  the  study — the  two  of  you — when  young  Gilbert 
was  there." 


268    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"See  here,  Cummings,"  I  put  in,  "if  Bowman  was 
around  the  place,  then  he  knows  that  Worth  left  before 
the  crime  was  committed.  Why  hasn't  he  told  you 
so?" 

"He  has,"  Cummings  said  neatly;  and  I  felt  as 
though  something  had  slipped.  Barbara  kept  a  brave 
front,  but  Mrs.  Bowman  moaned  audibly. 

"And  still  you've  charged  Worth  Gilbert  ?  Why  not 
Bowman  himself?  He  was  there.  As  much  reason 
to  suspect  him  as  any  of  the  others.  Do  you  mean  to 
tell  me  that  you  won't  accept  Mrs.  Bowman's  testimony 
— and  Dr.  Bowman's — as  proving  an  alibi  for  Worth 
Gilbert?  I'm  ready  to  swear  that  he  was  at  Tait's 
at  five  minutes  past  ten,  was  there  continuously  from 
that  time  until  a  little  after  midnight,  when  you  your 
self  saw  him  there." 

"A  little  past  midnight!"  Cummings  repeated  my 
words  half  derisively.  "Not  good  enough,  Boyne. 
We  base  our  charge  on  the  medical  statement  that  Mr. 
Gilbert  met  his  death  in  the  small  hours  of  Sunday 
morning." 

I  looked  away  from  Barbara;  I  couldn't  bear  her 
eye.  After  a  stunned  silence,  I  asked, 

"Whose?     Who  makes  that  statement?" 

"His  own  physician.     Doctor  Bowman  swears — " 

"He?"  Mrs.  Bowman  half  rose  from  her  chair. 
"He'd  swear  to  anything.  I — " 

"Don't  say  any  more,"  Cummings  cut  her  off.  And 
Dykeman  mumbled, 

"Had  the  whole  history  of  your  marital  infelicities 
all  over  the  shop.  Too  bad  such  things  had  to  be 
dragged  in.  Man  seems  to  be  a  worthy  person — " 

"Doctor  Bowman  told  me  positively,"  I  broke  in, 


MRS.  BOWMAN  SPEAKS  269 

"on  the  Sunday  night  the  body  was  found,  that  death 
must  have  occured  before  midnight." 

"Gave  that  as  his  opinion — his  opinion — then," 
Cummings  corrected  me. 

"Yes,"  I  accepted  the  correction.  "That  was  his 
opinion  before  he  quarreled  with  Worth.  Now  he — " 

"Slandering  Bowman  won't  get  you  anywhere, 
Boyne,"  Cummings  said.  "He  wasn't  here  to  testify 
at  the  inquest.  Man  alive,  you  know  that  nothing  but 
sworn  testimony  counts." 

"I  wouldn't  believe  that  man's  oath,"  I  said  shortly. 

"Think  you'll  find  a  jury  will,"  smirked  Cummings, 
and  Dykeman  croaked  in, 

"A  mighty  credible  witness — a  mighty  credible  wit 
ness!" 

While  these  pleasant  remarks  flew  back  and  forth,  a 
thumping  and  bumping  had  made  itself  heard  in  the 
hall.  Now  something  came  against  our  door,  as 
though  a  large  bundle  had  been  thrown  at  the  panels. 
The  knob  rattled,  jerked,  was  turned,  and  a  man 
appeared  on  the  threshold,  swaying  unsteadily.  Two 
others,  who  seemed  to  have  been  holding  him  back, 
let  go  all  at  once,  and  he  lurched  a  step  into  the  room. 
Doctor  Anthony  Bowman. 

A  minute  he  stood  blinking,  staring,  then  he  caught 
sight  of  his  wife  and  bawled  out, 

"She's  here  all  right.  Tol'  you  she  was  here.  Can't 
fool  me.  Saw  her  go  past  in  the  hall." 

I  looked  triumphantly  at  Dykeman  and  Cummings. 
Their  star  witness — drunk  as  a  lord!  So  far  he 
seemed  to  have  sensed  nothing  in  the  room  but  his 
wife.  Without  turning,  he  reached  behind  him  and 
slammed  the  door  in  the  faces  of  those  who  had 


270   THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

brought  him,  then  advanced  weavingly  on  the  woman, 
with, 

"Get  up  from  there.  Get  your  hat.  I'll  show  you. 
You  come  'long  home  with  me!  Ain't  I  your  hus 
band?" 

"Doctor  Bowman,"  peppery  little  old  Dykeman 
spoke  up  from  the  depths  of  his  chair.  "Your  wife 
was  brought  here  to  a — to  a — " 

"Meeting,"   Cummings  supplied  hastily. 

"Huh  ?"  Bowman  wheeled  and  saw  us.  "Why-ee ! 
Di'n'  know  so  many  gen'lemen  here." 

"Yes,'"  the  lawyer  put  a  hand  on  his  shoulder. 
"Conference — over  the  evidence  in  the  Gilbert  case. 
No  time  like  the  present  for  you  to  say — " 

"Hoi'  on  a  minute,''  Bowman  raised  a  hand  with 
dignity. 

"Cummings,"  said  Dykeman  disgustedly,  "the  man's 
drunk!" 

"No,  no,"  owlishly.  "  'm  not  'ntoxicated.  Over 
come  with  'motion."  Hetook  a  brace.  "That  woman 
there — 'f  I  sh'd  tell  you — walk  into  hotel  room,  find  her 
with  three  men!  Three  of  'em!" 

"How  much  of  this  are  these  ladies  to  stand  for?" 
I  demanded. 

"Ladies?"  Bowman  roared  suddenly.  "She's  m* 
wife.  Where's  th'  other  man?  Nothing  'gainst  you 
gen'lmen.  Where's  he?  I'll  settle  with  him.  Let 
that  thing  go  long  'nough.  Too  long.  Bring  him 
out.  I'll  settle  him  now!" 

He  dropped  heavilyinto  the  chair  Cummings  shoved 
up  behind  him,  stared  around,  drooped  a  bit,  pulled 
himself  together,  and  looked  at  us;  then  his  head  went 
forward  on  his  neck,  a  long  breath  sounded — 


MRS.  BOWMAN  SPEAKS  271 

"And  you'll  keep  Worth  Gilbert  in  jail,  run  the 
risk  of  a  suit  for  false  imprisonment — on  that!"  I 
wanted  to  know. 

"And  plenty  more,"  the  lawyer  held  steady,  but  I 
saw  his  uneasiness  with  every  snore  Bowman  drew. 

Barbara  crossed  to  speak  low  and  earnestly  to  Dyke- 
man.  I  heard  most  of  his  answer — shaken,  but  dis 
posed  to  hang  on, 

"Girl  like  you  is  too  much  influenced  by  the  man  in 
the  case.  Hero  worship — all  that  sort  of  thing.  An 
outlaw  is  an  outlaw.  This  isn't  a  personal  matter. 
Mr.  Cummings  and  I  are  merely  doing  our  duty  as 
good  citizens." 

At  that,  I  think  it  possible  that  Dykeman  would  have 
listened  to  reason;  it  was  Cummings  who  broke  in 
uncontrollably, 

"Barbara  Wallace,  I  was  your  father's  friend.  I'm 
yours — if  you'll  let  me  be.  I  can't  stand  by  while 
you  entangle  yourself  with  a  criminal  like  Worth  Gil 
bert.  For  your  sake,  if  for  no  other  reason,  I  would 
be  determined  to  show  him  up  as  what  he  is :  a  thief 
— and  his  father's  murderer." 

Silence  in  the  room,  except  the  irregular  snoring  of 
Bowman,  a  rustle  and  a  deeply  taken  breath  now  and 
again  where  Mrs.  Bowman  sat,  her  head  bent,  quietly 
weeping.  On  this,  Barbara  who  spoke  out  clearly, 

"Those  were  the  last  words  you  will  ever  say  to  me, 
Mr.  Cummings,  unless  you  should  some  time  be  man 
enough  to  take  back  your  aspersions  and  apologize  for 
them." 

He  gave  ground  instantly.  I  had  not  thought  that 
dry  voice  of  his  could  contain  what  now  came  into  it. 

"Barbara,  I  didn't  mean — you  don't  understand — " 


272    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

But  without  turning  her  head,  she  spoke  to  me: 
"Mr.  Boyne,  will  you  take  Laura  and  me  home?" 
gathering  up  Mrs.  Bowman's  hat  and  veil,  shaking  the 
latter  out,  getting  her  charge  ready  as  a  mother  might 
a  child.  "She's  not  going  back  to  him — ever  again." 
Her  glance  passed  over  the  sleeping  lump  of  a  man  in 
his  chair.  "Sarah'll  make  a  place  for  her  at  our  house 
to-night." 

"See  here,"  Cummings  got  between  us  and  the  door 
"I  can't  let  you  go  like  this.  I  feel — " 

"Mr.  Dykeman,"  Barbara  turned  quietly  to  her  em 
ployer,  "could  we  pass  out  through  your  room?" 

"Certainly,"  the  little  man  was  brisk  to  make  a  way 
for  us.  "I  want  you  to  know,  Miss  Wallace,  that  I, 
too,  feel — I,  too,  feel — " 

I  don't  know  what  it  was  that  Dykeman  felt,  but 
Cummings  felt  my  rude  elbow  in  his  chest  as  I  pushed 
him  unceremoniously  aside,  and  opened  the  door  he 
had  blocked,  remarking, 

"We  go  out  as  we  came  in.     This  way,  Barbara." 

It  was  as  I  parted  with  the  two  of  them  at  the  Cape- 
hart  gate  that  I  drew  out  and  handed  Mrs.  Bowman 
a  small  piece  of  dull  blue  silk,  a  round  hole  in  it, 
such  as  a  bullet  or  a  cigarette  might  have  made,  with, 

"I  guess  you'll  just  have  to  forgive  me  that." 

"I  don't  need  to  forgive  it,"  her  gaze  swam.  "I 
saw  your  mistake.  But  it  was  for  Worth  you  were 
fighting  even  then;  he's  been  so  dear  to  me  always — 
I'd  have  to  love  any  one  for  anything  they  did  for 
his  sake." 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THE  BLOSSOM  FESTIVAL 

TWO  hours  sleep,  bath,  breakfast,  and  I  started 
on  my  early  morning  run  for  the  county  seat. 
Nobody  else  was  going  my  way ;  but  even  at  that  hour, 
the  road  was  full  of  autos,  buggies,  farm  wagons, 
pretty  much  everything  that  could  run  on  wheels, 
headed  for  the  festival,  all  trimmed  and  streaming  with 
the  blossoming  branches  of  their  orchards.  These 
were  the  country  folks,  coming  in  early  to  make  a 
big  day  of  it;  orchardists;  ranchers  from  the  cattle 
lands  in  the  south  end  of  the  county;  truck  and  vege 
table  farmers ;  flower-seed  gardeners ;  the  Japs  and 
Chinese  from  their  little,  closely  cultivated  patches; 
this  tide  streamed  past  me  on  my  left  hand,  as  I  made 
my  way  to  Worth  and  the  jailer's  office,  trying  with 
every  mile  I  put  behind  me,  to  bolster  my  courage. 
Why  wasn't  this  shift  of  the  enemy  a  blessing  in  dis 
guise?  Let  their  setting  of  the  hour  for  the  murder 
stick,  and  wouldn't  Worth's  alibi  be  better  than  any  we 
should  have  been  able  to  dig  up  for  him  before  mid 
night  ? 

From  time  to  time  I  was  troubled  by  recollection  of 
Barbara's  crushed  look  from  the  moment  they  sprung 
it  on  us,  but  brushed  that  aside  with  the  obvious  ex 
planation  that  her  efforts  in  bringing  Mrs.  Bowman 
to  speak  out  had  just  been  of  no  use;  surely  enough 
to  depress  her. 

273 


274    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

Worth  met  me,  fit,  quiet,  not  over  eager  about  any 
thing.  They  let  us  talk  with  a  guard  outside  the  door. 
Once  alone,  he  listened  appreciatively  while  I  told  him 
of  our  interview  with  Cummings  and  Dykeman  as  fast 
as  I  could  pile  the  words  out. 

"Nobody  on  earth  like  Bobs,"  was  his  sole  comment. 
"Never  was,  never  will  be." 

"And  now,"  I  reminded  him  nervously,  "there's  the 
question  of  this  alibi.  You  went  straight  from  the 
restaurant  to  your  room  at  the  Palace  and  to  bed 
there?" 

"No-o,"  he  said  slowly.     "No,  I  didn't." 

"Well — well,"  I  broke  in.  "If  you  stopped  on  the 
way,  you  can  remember  where.  The  people  you  spoke 
to  will  be  as  good  as  the  clerks  and  bell-hops  at  the 
Palace  for  your  alibi."  He  sat  silent,  thoughtful,  and 
I  added,  "Where  did  you  go  from  Tait's,  Worth?" 

"To  a  garage — in  the  Tenderloin — where  they  keep 
good  cars.  I'd  hired  machines  from  them  before." 

"Oh,  they  knew  you  there?  Then  their  testimony 
will—" 

"I  don't  believe  you  want  it,  Jerry.  It  only  accounts 
for  the  half  hour — or  less — right  after  I  left  you ;  all 
I  did  was  to  hire  a  car." 

"A  car,"  I  echoed  vaguely.  "What  kind  of  a  car? 
Hired  it  for  when?" 

"I  asked  them  for  the  fastest  thing  they  had  in  the 
shop.  Told  'em  to  fill  it  all  round,  and  see  that  it 
was  tuned  up  to  the  last  notch.  I  wanted  speed." 

"My  God,  Worth !  Do  you  know  what  you're  tell 
ing  me?" 

"The  truth.  Jerry."  His  eye  met  mine  unflinch 
ingly.  "That's  what  you  want,  isn't  it?" 


THE  BLOSSOM  FESTIVAL          275 

"Where  did  you  go?"  I  groaned.  "You  must  have 
seen  somebody  who  could  identify  or  remember  you?" 

"Not  a  solitary  human  being  to  identify  me.  Those 
I  passed — there  were  people  out  of  course,  late  as  it 
was — saw  my  headlights  as  I  went  by.  But  I  was 
moving  fast,  Jerry.  I  was  working  off  a  grouch;  I 
needed  speed." 

"Where  did  you  go?" 

"Straight  down  the  peninsula  on  the  main  high 
way  to  Palo  Alto,  made  the  sweep  across  to  the  sea, 
and  then  up  the  coast  road.  I  ran  into  the  garage 
about  dawn." 

"No  stops  anywhere?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"And  that's  your  alibi?" 

"That's  my  alibi."  Worth  looked  at  me  a  long 
while  before  he  said  finally, 

"Don't  you  see,  Jerry,  that  the  other  side  had  all 
this  before  they  encouraged  Bowman  to  change  his 
mind  about  when  father  was  shot?" 

I  did  see  it — ought  to  have  known  from  the  first. 
This  was  what  they  had  back  of  them  last  night  in 
Cummings'  room;  this  explained  the  lawyer's  smug 
self-confidence,  Dykeman's  violent  certainty  that 
Worth  was  a  criminal.  A  realization  of  this  had 
whitened  Barbara's  face,  set  her  lips  in  that  pitiful, 
straight  line.  As  to  their  momentary  chagrin  over 
Bowman;  no  trouble  to  them  to  get  other  physicians 
to  bolster  any  opinion  he'd  given.  Medical  testimony 
on  such  a  point  is  notoriously  uncertain.  All  the 
jury  would  want  to  know  was  that  there  could  be  such 
a  possibility.  I  sat  there  with  bent  head,  and  felt  my 
self  going  to  pieces.  Cummings  was  right — I  was  no 


276    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

fit  man  to  handle  this  job.  My  personal  feelings 
were  too  deeply  involved.  It  was  Worth's  voice  that 
recalled  me. 

"Cheer  up,  Jerry,  old  man.     Take  it  to  Bobs." 

Take  it  to  Bobs — the  idea  of  a  big,  husky  old  police 
detective  running  to  cast  his  burden  on  such  shoulders ! 
I  couldn't  quite  do  it  then.  I  went  and  telephoned  the 
little  girl  that  I  was  doing  the  best  I  could — and  then 
ran  circles  for  the  rest  of  the  day,  chasing  one  vain 
hope  after  another,  and  finally,  in  the  late  afternoon, 
sneaked  home  to  Santa  Ysobel. 

Now  I  had  the  road  more  to  myself;  only  an  oc 
casional  handsome  car,  where  the  wealthy  were  gett'ng 
in  to  the  part  of  the  festival  they'd  care  for.  In  the 
orchards  near  town  where  the  big  picnic  places  had 
been  laid  out  with  rough  board  tables  and  benches, 
seats  for  thousands,  there  were  occasional  loud  basket 
lunch  parties  scattered.  All  at  once  I  was  hungry 
enough  to  have  gone  and  asked  for  a  handout. 

I  went  by  back  streets  down  to  the  house  to  get  my 
mail.  There  seemed  no  human  reason  that  I  should 
feel  it  a  treachery  to  have  Worth  in  jail  at  San  Jose, 
and  be  able  to  walk  into  his  house  at  Santa  Ysobel  a 
free  man.  The  place  was  empty;  Chung  had  the  day 
off,  of  course.  It  was  possible  Worth's  cook,  even, 
didn't  know  what  had  happened  to  his  employer. 
Santa  Ysobel  had  no  morning  paper.  In  the  confu 
sion  of  the  blossom  festival,  I  ventured  to  guess  that 
not  more  than  a  score  of  people  did  as  yet  know  of 
the  arrest.  Our  end  of  town  was  drained,  quiet ;  no 
body  over  at  the  Vandeman  bungalow;  looking  down 
at  the  Square  as  1  made  my  sneak  through,  I  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  Bronson  Vandeman,  a  great  ro- 


THE  BLOSSOM  FESTIVAL          277 

sette  of  apricot  blossoms  on  his  coat  lapel,  making  his 
speech  of  presentation  to  the  cannery  girl  queen,  while 
his  wife,  Ina,  her  fair  face  shaded  doubly  by  a  big 
flower  hat  and  a  blossom  covered  parasol,  listened  and 
looked  on. 

One  of  my  pieces  of  mail  concerned  the  Skeels 
chase.  If  my  men  down  there  had  Skeels,  and  Skeels 
was  Clayte,  it  would  mean  everything  in  handling 
Cummings  and  Dykeman.  I  took  out  the  report  and 
ran  hastily  through  it;  a  formal  statement;  day  by 
day  stuff: 

"Found  Skeels  and  Dial  at  Tiajuana.  Negotiating 
to  buy  saloon  and  gambling  house.  Arranged  with 
Jefico  for  arrest  of  S.  (Expense  $20.)  Rurales  took 
S.  to  jail.  (Expense,  $4.50)  I  interviewed  S.,  and 
he  said  lie  came  here  to  open  a  business  where  he  could, 
sell  booze.  D.  was  his  partner  in  proposition.  S. 
knew  nothing  of  bank  affair.  Would  waive  extradi 
tion  and  come  back  to  stand  trial  at  our  expense. 
Interviewed  D.  He  says  combined  capital  of  two  is 
$4500.,  saved  from  S's  business  and  D's  miner's 
wages.  D.  said — " 

Not  much  to  show  up  with;  but  there  were  three 
photographs  enclosed  that  I  wanted  to  try  on  Cum 
mings  and  Dykeman.  No  telling  where  I'd  find  either, 
but  the  Fremont  House  was  my  best  bet.  Getting 
back  there  through  the  crowd,  I  saw  Skeet  Thornhill 
in  a  corner  drugstore,  waiting  at  its  counter.  I  was 
afoot,  having  been  obliged  to  park  my  roadster  in  one 
of  the  spaces  set  apart  for  this  purpose.  I  noticed 
Vandeman's  car  already  there. 

I  lingered  a  minute  on  that  corner  looking  down  the 


278    THE.  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

slope  that  led  to  City  Hall  Square.  Tent  restaurants 
along  the  way;  sandwiches;  hot  dogs;  coffee;  milk; 
pies;  doughnuts.  Part  way  down  a  hurdy-gurdy  in 
a  tent  began  to  get  patronage  again ;  the  school  children 
in  white  dresses  with  pink  bows  in  their  hair  had  just 
finished  a  stunt  in  the  Square.  They  and  their  elders 
were  streaming  our  way,  headed  for  the  snake  charm 
ers,  performing  dogs  and  Nigger-in-the-tank.  In  the 
midst  of  them  Vandeman  and  his  wife  came  afoot. 
He  caught  sight  of  me,  hailed,  and  when  I  joined  them, 
asked  quickly,  glancing  toward  the  drugstore  entrance, 

"Worth  come  with  you?" 

I  shook  my  head.  He  made  that  little  clucking 
sound  with  his  tongue  that  people  do  when  they  want 
to  offer  sympathy,  and  find  the  matter  hard  to  put  into 
words. 

A  seller  of  toy  balloons  on  the  corner  with  a  lot  of 
.noisy  youngsters  around  him;  the  ka-lash,  ka-lam  of 
a  mechanical  piano  further  down  the  block ;  and  young 
Mrs.  Vandeman's  staccato  tones  saying, 

"I  tell  Bron  that  the  only  thing  Worth's  friends 
can  do  is  to  go  on  exactly  as  if  nothing  had  happened. 
Don't  you  think  so,  Mr.  Boyne?" 

I  agreed  mutely. 

"Well,  I  wish  you'd  say  so  to  Barbie  Wallace,"  her 
voice  sharpened.  "She's  certainly  acting  as  though 
she  believed  the  worst." 

"Now,  Ina,"  Vandeman  remonstrated.  And  I  asked 
uncomfortably, 

"What's  Barbie  done  ?     Where  is  she  ?" 

"Up  at  Mrs.  Capehart's.  In  her  room.  Doesn't 
come  out  at  all.  Isn't  going  to  the  ball  to-night. 
Skeet  said  she  refused  to  speak  to  Mr.  Cummings." 


THE  BLOSSOM  FESTIVAL          279 

"Is  that  all  Skeet  said?  Vandeman,  you've  told 
your  wife  that  Cummings  swore  to  the  complaint?" 

"Yes,  but — er — there's  no  animus.  The  executor  of 
Gilbert's  estate — With  all  the  talk  going  around — 
If  Worth's  proved  innocent,  he  might  in  the  end  be 
glad  of  Cummings'  action." 

"Oh,  might  he?"  Skeet  Thornhill  had  hurried  out 
from  the  drugstore,  a  package  of  medicine  in  her  hand. 
Her  eyes  looked  as  though  she'd  been  crying;  they 
flashed  a  hostile  glance  over  the  new  brother-in-law, 
excellently  groomed,  the  big  flower  favor  on  his  coat, 
the  tall,  beautiful  sister,  all  frilly  white  and  flower 
festival  fashion. 

"//  Worth's  proved  innocent!"  she  flung  at  them. 
"Bronse  Vandeman,  you've  got  a  word  too  many  in 
when  you  say  that." 

"Just  a  tongue-slip,  Skeeter,"  Vandeman  apologized. 
"I  hope  the  boy'll  come  through  all  right — same  as 
you  do." 

"You  don't  do  anything  about  it  the  same  as  I  do!" 
Skeet  came  back.  "I'd  be  ashamed  to  'hope'  for  a 
friend  to  be  cleared  of  a  charge  like  that.  If  I  couldn't 
know  he  was  clear — clear  all  the  time — I'd  try  to  for 
get  about  it." 

"See  here,  Skeet,"  Ina  obviously  restrained  herself, 
"that's  what  we're  all  trying  to  do  for  Worth :  forget 
about  it — make  nothing  of  it — act  exactly  as  if  it'd 
never  happened.  You  ought  to  come  on  out  to  the 
ball  with  the  other  girls.  You're  just  staying  away 
because  Barbara  Wallace  is." 

"I'm  not.  Some  damn  fool  went  and  told  mother 
about  Worth  being  arrested,  and  made  her  a  lot  worse. 
She's  almost  crazy.  I'd  be  afraid  to  leave  her  alone 


28o    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

with  old  Jane.  You  get  me  and  this  medicine  up 
home — or  shall  I  go  around  to  Capehart's  and  have 
Barbie  drive  me?" 

"I'll  take  you,  Skeeter,"  Vandeman  said.  "We're 
through  here.  We're  for  home  to  dress,  then  to  the 
country  club — and  not  leave  it  again  till  morning. 
That  ball  out  there  has  got  to  be  made  the  biggest 
thing  Santa  Ysobel  ever  saw — regardless.  Come  on." 
The  crowd  swallowed  them  up. 

Making  for  the  Fremont  House,  I  passed  Dr.  Bow 
man's  stairway,  and  on  impulse  turned,  ran  up.  I 
found  the  doctor  packing,  very  snappish,  very  sorry 
for  himself.  He  was  leaving  next  day  for  a  position 
in  the  state  hospital  for  the  insane  at  Sefton.  His 
kind  have  to  blow  off  to  somebody;  I  was  it,  though 
he  must  have  known  I  had  no  sympathy  to  offer.  The 
hang-over  of  last  night's  drunk  made  emotional  the 
tone  in  which  he  said, 

"After  all,  a  man's  wife  makes  or  breaks  him. 
Mine's  broken  me.  I  could  have  had  a  fine  position 
at  the  Mountain  View  Sanitarium,  well  paid,  among 
cultured  people,  if  she'd  held  up  her  damned  divorce 
suit  a  little  longer." 

"And  as  it  is,  you  have  to  put  up  with  what  Cum- 
mings  can  land  you  with  such  pull  as  he  has." 

"I'm  not  complaining  of  Cummings,"  sullenly.  "He 
did  the  best  he  could  for  me,  I  suppose,  on  such  short 
notice.  But  a  man  of  my  class  is  practically  wasted 
in  a  place  of  the  sort." 

I  had  learned  what  I  wanted;  I  carried  more 
ammunition  to  the  interview  before  me.  I  found 
Dykeman  in  his  room,  propped  up  in  bed,  wheezing 
with  an  attack  of  asthma.  A  sick  man  is  either  more 


THE  BLOSSOM  FESTIVAL          281 

merciful  than  usual,  or  more  unmerciful.  Apparently 
it  took  Dykeman  the  former  way;  he  accepted  me 
eagerly,  and  had  me  call  Cummings  from  the  adjoining 
room.  The  lawyer  was  half  into  that  costume  he  had 
brought  from  San  Francisco.  He  came  quite  modern 
as  to  the  legs  and  feet,  but  thoroughly  ancient  in  a  shirt 
of  mail  around  the  arms  and  chest,  and  carrying  a 
Roman  helmet  in  his  hand  as  though  it  had  been  an 
opera  hat. 

"Trying  'em  on?"  Dykeman  whispered  at  him. 

Cummings  nodded  with  that  self-conscious,  half- 
tickled,  half -sheepish  air  that  men  display  when  it 
comes  to  costume.  His  greeting  to  me  was  cool  but 
not  surly.  What  had  happened  might  go  as  all  in  the 
day's  work  between  detective  and  lawyer. 

"Just  seen  Bowman,"  was  my  first  pass  at  them. 
"I  gather  he's  not  very  well  pleased  with  the  position 
you  got  him ;  seems  to  think  it  small  pay  for  a  dirty 
job." 

"What's  this?  What's  this?"  croaked  Dykeman. 
"You  been  getting  a- place  for  Bowman,  Cummings?" 

"Certainly,"  the  lawyer  dodged  with  swift,  practical 
neatness.  "I'd  promised  him  my  influence  in  the 
matter  some  little  time  ago." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "mighty  little  time  ago — the  day  he 
promised  the  testimony  you  wanted  in  the  Gilbert 
case." 

"Anything  in  what  Boyne  says,  Cummings?"  Dyke 
man  asked  anxiously.  "You  know  I  wouldn't  stand 
for  that  sort  of  stuff." 

The  lawyer  shook  his  head,  but  I  didn't  believe  it 
was  ended  between  them;  Dykeman  was  the  devil  to 
hang  on  to  a  point.  This  would  come  up  again  after 


282    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

I  was  gone.  Meantime  I  made  haste  to  shove  the 
photographs  before  them.  Cummings  passed  them 
back  with  an  indifferent,  "What's  the  idea?" 

"You  don't  recognize  him?" 

"Never  saw  the  man  in  my  life,"  and  again  he  asked, 
"What's  the  idea?" 

"You'd  recognize  a  picture  of  Clayte?"  I  countered 
with  a  question  of  my  own. 

"Yes — I  think  so,"  rather  dubiously.  "But  Dyke- 
man  would.  Show  them  to  him.'* 

Dykeman  reached  for  the  photographs,  spread  them 
out  before  him,  then  looked  up  from  them  peevishly  to 
say, 

"For  the  good  Lord's  sake!  Don't  look  any  more 
like  Clayte  than  it  does  like  a  horned  toad.  Is  that 
what  you've  been  wasting  your  time  over,  Boyne?  If 
you  ask  me — " 

"I  don't  ask  you  anything,"  retrieving  the  pictures, 
planting  them  deep  in  an  inner  pocket.  Then  I  got 
myself  out  of  the  room. 

Standing  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  Fremont 
House,  I  felt  sort  of  bewildered.  This  last  crack  had 
taken  all  the  pep  I  had  left.  I  suddenly  realized  it 
was  long  after  dinner  time,  and  I'd  had  no  dinner,  no 
lunch,  nothing  to  eat  since  an  early  breakfast.  Worth 
had  sent  me  to  the  girl — and  I  hadn't  gone.  I  dragged 
myself  around  to  Capehart's  cottage  as  nearly  whipped 
as  I  ever  was  in  my  life. 

I  found  Barbara  with  Laura  Bowman,  every  one 
else  off  the  place,  out  at  the  shows.  Those  girls  sure 
were  good  to  me ;  they  fed  me  and  didn't  ask  questions 
till  I  was  ready  to  talk.  Nothing  to  be  said  really, 
except  that  I'd  failed.  I  told  them  of  meeting  the 


THE  BLOSSOM  FESTIVAL          283 

Vandemans,  and  gave  them  Ina  Vandeman's  opinion 
as  to  how  Worth's  friends  should  conduct  themselves 
just  now. 

"So  they'll  all  be  out  there,"  I  concluded,  "Van- 
deman  and  his  wife  leading  the  grand  march,  her  sis 
ters  as  maids  of  honor — except  Skeet,  staying  at  home 
with  her  mother.  Cummings  goes  as  a  Roman  soldier ; 
Doctor  Bowman  as  a  Spanish  cavalier.  Edwards 
didn't  see  it  as  the  Vandemans  do,  but  after  I'd  talked 
to  him  awhile,  he  agreed  to  be  there." 

And  suddenly  I  noticed  for  the  first  time  how  the 
relative  position  of  these  two  women  had  shifted. 
Laura  Bowman  wasn't  red-headed  for  nothing;  out 
from  under  the  blight  of  Bowman  and  that  hateful 
marriage,  she  had  already  thrown  off  some  of  her 
physical  frailness;  the  nervous  tension  showed  itself 
now  in  energy.  She  was  moving  swiftly  about  putting 
to  rights  after  my  meal  while  she  listened.  But  Bar 
bara  sat  looking  straight  ahead  of  her;  I  knew  she  was 
seeing  streets  full  of  carnival,  every  friend  and 
acquaintance  out  at  a  ball — and  Worth  in  a  murderer's 
cell.  It  wouldn't  do.  I  jumped  to  my  feet  with  a 
brisk, 

"Girl,  where's  your  hat  ?  We'll  go  to  the  study  and 
look  over  all  our  points  once  more.  Get  busy — get 
busy.  That's  the  medicine  for  you." 

She  gave  me  a  miserable  look  and  a  negative  shake 
of  the  head;  but  I  still  urged,  "Worth  sent  me  to  you. 
The  last  thing  he  said  was,  'Take  it  to  Bobs.' ' 

Dumbly  she  submitted.  Mrs.  Bowman  came  run 
ning  with  the  girl's  hat,  and,  "What  about  me,  Mr. 
Boyne?  Isn't  there  something  I  can  do?" 

"I  wish  you'd  go  to  the  country  club — to  the  ball — 


284    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

the  same  as  all  the  others.  Got  a  costume  here,  haven't 
you?" 

"Yes,  I  can  wear  Barbara's,"  she  glanced  to  "where 
a  pile  of  soft  black  stuff,  a  red  scarf,  a  scarlet  poppy 
wreath,  lay  on  a  chair,  "She  was  to  have  gone  as  'The 
Lady  of  Dreams.' ' 

Barbara  went  with  me  out  into  the  flare  of  carnival 
illumination  that  paled  the  afterglow  of  a  gorgeous 
sunset.  No  cars  allowed  on  these  down-town  streets; 
even  walking,  we  found  it  best  to  take  the  long  way 
round.  To  our  left  the  town  roared  and  racketed  as 
though  it  was  afire.  Nothing  said  between  us  till  I 
grumbled  out, 

"I  wish  I  knew  where  Cummings  was  keeping  Eddie 
Hughes." 

Barbara's  voice  beside  me  answered  unexpectedly, 

"Here.  In  Santa  Ysobel.  Eddie  was  at  Capehart's 
fifteen  minutes  before  you  got  there;  he  came  for  Bill. 
A  gasoline  engine  at  the  city  hall  had  broken  down." 

I  pulled  up  short  for  a  moment,  and  looked  back  at 
the  town. 

"Where'dhego?" 

"With  Bill,  to  the  city  hall.  Eddie's  one  of  the 
queen's  guards.  They're  all  to  be  at  the  country  club 
at  ten  o'clock  to  review  the  grand  march  that  opens 
the  ball." 

I  mustn't  let  her  dwell  on  that.  I  hurried  on  once 
more,  and  neither  of  us  spoke  again  till  I  unlocked  the 
study  door,  snapped  on  the  lights,  brought  out  and  put 
on  the  table  the  1920  diary  and  the  little  blue  blotter — 
the  last  bits  of  evidence  that  I  felt  hadn't  been  thor 
oughly  analysed.  Barbara  just  dropped  into  a  chair 
and  looked  from  them  to  me  helplessly. 


THE  BLOSSOM  FESTIVAL          285 

"You've  read  this  all — carefully?"  she  sighed. 

It  shook  me.  To  have  Barbara,  the  girl  I'd  seen 
get  meanings  and  facts  from  a  written  page  with  a 
mere  flirt  of  a  glance,  ask  me  that.  What  I  really 
wanted  from  her  was  an  inspection  of  the  book  and 
blotter,  and  a  deduction  from  it.  As  though  she 
guessed,  she  answered  with  a  sort  of  wail, 

"I  can't  I  can't  even  remember  what  I  did  see  when 
I  looked  at  these  before.  I — can't — remember!" 

I  went  and  knelt  on  the  hearth  with  a  pretext  of  lay 
ing  a  fire  there,  since  the  shut-up  room  was  chill.  And 
when  I  glanced  stealthily  over  my  shoulder,  she  had 
gone  to  work;  not  as  I  had  ever  seen  her  before,  but 
fumbling  at  the  leaves,  hesitating,  turning  to  finger  the 
blotter ;  setting  her  lips  desperately,  like  an  over-driven 
school-child,  but  keeping  right  on.  I  spun  out  my  fire 
building  to  leave  her  to  herself.  Little  noises  of  her 
moving  there  at  the  table;  rustle  and  flutter  of  the 
leaves ;  now  and  again,  a  long,  sobbing  breath.  At  last 
something  like  a  groan  caused  me  to  turn  my  head  and 
see  her,  with  face  pale  as  death,  eyes  staring  across 
into  mine. 

"It  was  Clayte — Edward  Clayte — who  killed  Mr- 
Gilbert  here — in  this  room." 

The  hair  on  the  back  of  my  neck  stirred ;  I  thought 
the  girl  had  gone  mad.  As  I  ran  over  to  the  table 
and  looked  at  what  was  under  her  hand,  it  came  again. 

"He  did.  He  did.  It  was  Clayte — the  wonder 
man!" 

"Do — do  you  deduce  that,  Barbara?" 

"Did  I  ?"  she  raised  to  mine  the  face  of  a  sick  child. 
"I  must  have.  See — it's  here  on  the  blotter:  'y-t-e,' 
that's  Clayte.  Double  1-e-r;  that's  'teller.'  'Avenue' 


286    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

is  part  of  'Van  Ness  Avenue  Bank.'  Oh^yes;  I  de 
duced  it,  I  suppose.  Both  crimes  end  in  a  locked  room 
and  a  perfect  alibi.  But — but — don't  you  see,  if  it  is 
true — and  it  is — it  is — we're  worse  off  than  we  were 
before.  We've  the  wonder  man  against  us." 

"Barbara,"  I  cried.     "Barbara,  come  out  of  it!" 

"See?  You  don't  believe  in  me  any  morel"  and  her 
head  went  down  on  the  table. 

I  let  her  cry,  while  I  sat  and  thought.  The  broken 
sentences  she'd  sobbed  out  to  me  began  to  fit  up  like  a 
puzzle-game.  By  all  theories  of  good  detective  work,  I 
should  have  seen  from  the  first  the  similarity  of  these 
crimes.  But  Clayte,  slipping  in  here  to  do  this  murder 
— and  why?  What  mixed  him  up  with  affairs  here? 
And  then  the  icy  pang — Dykeman  had  seen  a  connec 
tion — Cummings  had  found  one.  With  them,  it  was 
Clayte  and  his  gang — and  his  gang  was  Worth  Gilbert. 
I  went  and  touched  Barbara  on  the  shoulder. 

"I'm  going  to  take  you  home  now." 

"Yes,"  tears  running  down  her  face  as  she  stumbled 
to  her  feet.  "I'm  a  failure.  I  can't  do  anything  for 
Worth." 

I  wiped  her  cheeks  with  my  own  handkerchief  and 
led  her  out.  As  I  turned  from  locking  the  door,  it 
seemed  to  me  I  saw  something  move  in  the  shrubbery. 
I  asked  Barbara  Wallace  about  it.  She  hadn't  noticed 
anything.  Barbara  Wallace  hadn't  noticed  anything! 

I  began  to  be  scared  for  her.  Solemn  in  the  sky 
above  boomed  out  the  town  clock — two  strokes.  Half 
past  nine.  I  must  get  this  poor  child  home.  We  were 
getting  in  toward  the  noise  and  the  light  when  I  felt 
her  shiver,  and  stopped  to  say, 

"Did  I  forget  your  coat  ?     Why,  where's  your  hat  ?" 


THE  BLOSSOM  FESTIVAL          287 

"The  hat's  back  there.  I  had  no  coat.  It  doesn't 
make  any  difference.  Come  on.  I  can't — can't — I 
must  get  home." 

I  looked  at  her,  saw  she  was  about  at  the  end  of  her 
strength,  and  decided  quickly, 

"We'll  go  straight  through?  the  Square.  Save  time 
and  steps." 

She  offered  no  objection,  and  we  started  in  where 
the  bands  played  for  the  street  dances,  amid  the 
raucous  tooting  of  a  thousand  fish-horns,  the  clangor 
of  cow-bells,  and  the  occasional  snap  of  the  forbidden 
fire-cracker.  As  we  turned  from  Broad  Street  into 
Main,  I  found  that  the  congestion  was  greater  even 
than  I  had  supposed.  Here,  several  blocks  away  from 
the  city  hall,  progress  was  so  difficult  that  I  took  Bar 
bara  back  a  block  to  get  the  street  that  paralleled  Main. 
This  we  could  navigate  slowly.  Here,  also,  every 
body  was  masked.  Confetti  flew,  serpentines  unreeled 
themselves  out  through  the  air,  dusters  spluttered  in 
faces,  and  among  the  Pierrettes,  Pierrots,  Columbines, 
sombrero-ed  cowboys,  bandana-ed  cow-girls,  Indians, 
Sambos,  Topsies  and  Poppy  Maidens,  Barbara's  little 
white  linen  slip  and  soft  white  sweater,  and  my  grey 
business  suit,  were  more  conspicuous  than  would  have 
been  the  Ahkoond  of  Swat  and  his  Captive  Slave. 
Even  after  the  confetti  had  sprinkled  her  black  hair 
until  it  reminded  me  of  Skeet's  blossom  wreath,  in 
finitely  multiplied,  I  still  saw  the  glances  through  the 
eye-holes  of  masks  follow  us  wonderingly. 

Opposite  the  city  hall,  where  we  must  cross  to  get  to 
the  Capehart  street,  we  were  again  almost  stopped  by 
the  dense  crowd.  The  Square  was  a  green-turfed 
dancing  floor;  from  its  stand,  an  orchestra  jazzed  out 


288    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

the  latest  and  dizziest  of  dances ;  and  countless  couples 
one-stepped  on  the  grass,  on  the  asphalt  of  the  streets, 
even  over  the  lawns  of  adjacent  houses,  tree  trunks 
and  flower  beds  adding  more  things  to  be  dodged.  At 
one  corner,  where  the  crowd  was  thick,  we  saw  a  big 
man  being  wound  to  a  pole  by  paper  serpentines. 
Yelling  and  capering,  the  masked  dancers  milled 
around  and  around  him,  winding  the  gay  ribbons,  while 
others  with  confetti  and  the  Spanish  cascarones,  tried 
to  snow  him  under.  As  we  came  up,  a  big  fist  wagged 
and  Bill  Capehart's  voice  roared, 

"Hold  on!     Too  much  is  a-plenty !" 

He  tore  himself  loose,  streaming  with  paper  strips, 
bent  and  filled  his  fists  from  the  confetti  at  his  feet. 
His  tormentors  howled  and  dropped  back  as  much  as 
they  could  for  the  hemming  crowd;  he  rushed  them, 
heaving  paper  ammunition  in  a  hail-storm,  and  reached 
us  in  two  or  three  jumps. 

"Golly!"  he  roared,  "Me  for  a  cyclone  cellar!  This 
is  a  riot.  You  ain't  in  costume,  either.  Wonder  they 
wouldn't  pick  on  you." 

With  the  words  they  did.  I  put  Barbara  behind  me, 
and  was  conscious  only  of  a  blinding  snow  of  paper 
flakes,  the  punch  and  slap  of  dusters,  in  an  uproar  of 
horns  and  bells. 

"Good  deal  like  fighting  a  swarm  of  bees  in  your 
shirt-tail  with  a  willow  switch,"  old  Bill  panted  at  my 
shoulder.  "Gosh!"  as  the  snapping  of  firecrackers  let 
loose  beneath  our  feet.  "Some  o'  these  mosquito-net 
skirts  '11  get  afire  next — then  there'll  be  hell  a-pop- 
ping!" 

Close  at  hand  there  was  a  louder  report,  as  of  a 
giant  cracker,  and  at  that  Barbara  sagged  against  me. 


THE  BLOSSOM  FESTIVAL          289 

I  whirled  and  put  an  arm  about  her.  Bill  grabbed 
her  from  me,  and  lifted  her  above  the  pressure  of  the 
crowd.  I  charged  ahead,  shouting, 

"Gangway!     Let  us  through!" 

Willing  enough,  the  mob  could  not  make  room  for 
passage  until  my  shoulder,  lowered  to  strike  at  the 
breast,  forced  a  way,  that  closed  in  the  instant  Bill 
gained  through.  It  was  football  tactics,  with  me 
bucking  the  line,  Bill  carrying  the  ball.  Fortunately, 
the  bunch  was  a  good-natured  festival  gathering,  or 
my  rough  work  might  have  brought  us  trouble.  As 
it  was,  a  short,  stiff  struggle  took  us  to  the  outer  fringe 
of  the  mob. 

"How  is  she?  What  happened?"  I  grunted,  com 
ing  to  a  stop. 

"Search  me."  Bill  twisted  around  to  look  at 
the  white  face  that  lay  back  on  his  shoulder,  with  closed 
lids.  Three  strokes  chimed  from  the  city  hall  tower. 
Barbara's  eyes  flashed  open ;  as  the  last  stroke  trembled 
in  the  air,  Barbara's  voice  came,  sharp  with  breathless 
urgence, 

"A  quarter  of  ten!  Quick — get  me  to  the  country 
club!" 

"Take  you  there?  Now,  d'ye  mean?"  I  ejaculated; 
and  holding  her  like  a  baby,  Bill's  eyes  flared  into  mine. 
"Did  something  happen  to  you  back  there,  girl?  Or 
did  you  just  faint?" 

"Never  mind  about  me !  There,"  that  glance  of  hers 
that  saw  everything  indicated  a  parking  place  packed 
with  machines  half  a  block  away  up  a  side  street. 
"Carry  me  there.  Take  one  of  those  cars.  Get  me  to 
the  country  club.  Don't — "  as  I  opened  my  mouth, 
"don't  ask  questions." 


290    THE  MILLION-COLLAR  SUITCASE 

I  turned  and  ran.  Bill  galloped  behind.  Barbara 
had  lifted  her  head  to  cry  after  me, 

"The  best  one !     Pick  the  fastest!" 

I  plunged  down  the  line  of  cars,  looking  for  a  good 
machine  and  one  with  whose  drive  I  was  familiar. 
The  guard  rushed  up  to  stop  me ;  I  showed  him  my 
badge,  leaped  into  the  front  seat  of  a  speed-built 
Tarpon,  and  had  it  out  by  the  time  Bill  came  up  with 
the  girl  in  his  arms.  I  turned  and  swung  open  the 
tonneau  door.  Almost  with  one  movement,  he  lifted 
her  in,  and  climbed  after.  I  started  off  with  bray 
ing  horn,  and  at  that  I  had  to  use  caution.  Making 
my  way  toward  the  corner  of  the  street  that  led  to 
Bill's  house,  I  felt  a  small  hand  clutch  the  slack  of  my 
coat  between  the  shoulders,  and  Barbara's  voice,  faint, 
but  with  a  fury  of  determination  in  it,  demanded, 

"Where  are  you  going?     I  said  the  country  club." 

"All  right;  I'll  go.  I'll  look  after  whatever  you 
want  out  there  when  I've  got  you  home." 

"Oh,  oh,"  she  moaned.  "Won't  you — this  one  time 
— take  orders?" 

I  went  on  past*  the  corner.  She  had  a  right  to  put 
it  just  that  way.  I  gave  the  Tarpon  all  I  dared  in  town 
streets. 

"What  time  is  it?"  I  heard  her  whispering  to  Bill. 
"Eight  minutes  to  ten?  I  have  to  be  there  by  ten,  or 
it's  no  use.  Can  he  make  it?  Do  you  think  he  can 
make  it?" 

"Yes,"  I  growled,  crouching  behind  the  wheel.  "I'll 
make  it.  May  have  to  kill  a  few — but  I'll  get  you 
there." 

By  this,  we'd  come  out  on  the  open  highway,  better, 
but  not  too  clear,  either.  There  followed  seven  min- 


THE  BLOSSOM  FESTIVAL          291 

utes  of  ripping  through  the  night,  of  people  who  ran 
yelling  to  get  out  of  our  way  and  hurled  curses  behind 
us,  only  a*  few  cars  meeting  us  like  the  whirling  of 
comets  in  terrifying  glimpses  as  we  shot  past;  and,  at 
last,  the  country  club;  strings  of  gay  lanterns,  winking 
ruby  tail-lights  of  machines  parked  in  front  of  it,  the 
glare  from  its  windows,  and  the  strains  of  the 
orchestra  in  its  ballroom,  playing  "On  the  Beach  at 
Waikiki."  When  she  heard  it,  Barbara  thanked  God 
with, 

"We're  in  time!" 

I  took  that  machine  up  to  the  front  steps  over  space 
never  intended  for  automobiles,  at  a  pace  not  proper 
for  lawns  or  even  roads,  and  only  halted  when  I  was 
half  across  the  walk.  Bill  rolled  from  the  tonneau 
door  and  stood  by  it.  I  jumped  down  and  came 
around. 

"Lift  me  out,  and  put  me  on  my  feet,"  Barbara 
ordered.  "Help  me — one  on  each  side.  I  can  walk. 
I  must!" 

We  crossed  a  deserted  porch;  the  evening's  opening 
event — the  grand  march — had  drawn  every  one,  serv 
ants  and  all,  inside.  So  far,  without  challenge,  meet 
ing  no  one.  We  had  the  place  to  ourselves  till  we 
stood,  the  three  of  us  alone,  before  the  upper  entrance 
of  the  assembly  room.  In  there,  the  last  strains  of 
Waikiki  died  away.  I  looked  to  Barbara.  She  was 
in  command.  Her  words  back  there  in  town  had 
settled  that  for  me. 

"What  do  we  do  now?"  I  asked. 

White  as  the  linen  she  wore,  the  girl's  face  shone 
with  some  inner  fire  of  passionate  resolution.  I  saw 
this,  too,  in  the  determined,  almost  desperate  energy 


292 


THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 


with  which  she  held  herself  erect,  one  clenched  hand 
pressed  hard  against  her  side. 

"Take  me  in  there,  Mr.  Boyne.  And  you,"  to  Cape- 
hart,  "find  a  man  you  can  trust  to  guard  each  door  of 
the  ball-room." 

"What  you  say  goes."  Big  Bill  wheeled  like  a  well 
trained  cart-horse  and  had  taken  a  step  or  two,  when 
she  called  after  him, 

"Arrest  any  one  who  attempts  to  enter." 

"Arrest  'em  if  they  try  to  git  in,"  Capehart  repeated 
stoically.  "Sure.  That  goes."  But  I  interrupted, 

"You  mean  if  they  try  to  get  out." 

At  that  she  gave  me  a  look.  No  time  or  breath  to 
waste.  Bill,  unquestioning,  had  hurried  to  his  part  of 
the  work.  I  took  up  mine  with,  "Forgive  me,  Barbara. 
I'll  not  make  that  mistake  again" ;  slipped  my  arm  un 
der  hers  to  support  her ;  dragged  open  the  big  doors ; 
shoved  past  the  hallman  there ;  and  we  stepped  into  the 
many-colored,  moving  brilliance  of  the  ball-room. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

THE  COUNTRY  CLUB  BALL 

THE  ballroom  of  the  country  club  at  Santa  Ysobel 
is  big  and  finely  proportioned.  I  don't  know  if 
anything  of  the  sort  could  have  registered  with  me  at 
the  moment,  but  I  remembered  afterward  my  impres 
sion  of  the  great  hall  fairly  walled  and  roofed  with 
fruit  blossoms,  and  the  gorgeousness  of  hundreds  of 
costumes.  The  mere  presence  of  potential  funds 
raises  the  importance  of  an  event.  The  prune  kings 
and  apricot  barons  down  there,  with  their  wives  and 
daughters  in  real  brocades,  satins  and  velvets,  with 
genuine  jewels  flashing  over  them,  represented  so  much 
in  the  way  of  substantial  wealth  that  it  seemed  to 
steady  the  whole  fantastic  scene. 

Barbara  and  I  entered  on  the  level  of  the  slightly 
raised  orchestra  stand  and  only  half  a  dozen  paces 
from  it.  Nobody  noticed  us  much;  we  came  in  right 
on  the  turn  of  things — floor  managers  darting  around, 
orchestra  with  bows  poised  and  horns  at  lips,  the  whole 
glittering  company  of  maskers  being  made  ready  to 
weave  their  "Figure  of  Eight"  across  the  dancing 
floor.  My  poor  girl  dragged  on  my  arm;  her  small 
feet  scuffed;  I  lifted  her  along,  wishing  I  might  pick 
her  up  and  carry  her  as  Bill  had  done.  I  made  for 
an  unoccupied  musicians'  bench;  but  once  there,  she 
only  leaned  against  it,  not  letting  go  her  hold  on  me, 

293 


294    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

and  stood  to  take  in  every  detail  of  the  confused,  mov 
ing  scene. 

The  double  doors  had  swung  closed  behind  us;  the 
hallman  there  who  held  the  knob,  now  reinforced  by  a 
uniformed  policeman.  The  servants'  way,  at  the  fur 
ther  end  was  shut ;  men  in  plain  clothes  set  their  backs 
against  it.  And  last,  Big  Bill  himself  in  overalls,  a 
touch  of  blunt  blue  realism,  came  fogging  along  the 
side-wall  to  swing  into  place  the  great  wooden  bar  that 
secured  the  entire  group  of  glass  doors  which  gave  on 
the  porch.  Barbara  would  have  seen  all  these  arrange 
ments  while  I  was  getting  ready  for  my  first  glance, 
but  I  prompted  her  nervously  with  a  low-toned,  "All 
set,  girl,"  and  then  as  she  still  didn't  speak,  "Bill's  got 
every  door  guarded." 

She  nodded.  The  length  of  the  room  away,  in  the 
end  gallery,  was  the  cannery  girl  queen  and  her  guard. 
Even  at  that  distance,  I  recognized  Eddie  Hughes,  in 
his  pink-and-white  Beef  Eater  togs,  a  gilded  wooden 
spear  in  his  hand,  a  flower  tassel  bobbing  beside  that 
long,  drab,  knobby  countenance  of  his.  There  he  was, 
the  man  I'd  jailed  for  Thomas  Gilbert's  murder.  Be 
low  on  the  dancing  floor,  were  the  two,  Cummings  and 
Bowman,  who  had  put  Worth  behind  the  bars  for  the 
same  crime.  At  my  side  was  the  pale,  silent  girl  who 
declared  that  Clayte  was  the  murderer. 

Whispered  tuning  and  trying  of  instruments  up  here ; 
flutter  and  rush  about  down  on  the  dancing  floor ;  and 
Barbara,  that  clenched  left  hand  of  hers  still  pressed 
in  hard  against  her  side,  facing  what  problem  ? 

Crash !  Boom !  We  were  so  close  the  music  fairly 
deafened  us,  as,  with  a  multiplied  undernote  of 
moving  feet,  the  march  began.  On  came  those  people 


THE  COUNTRY  CLUB  BALL        295 

toward  us,  wave  behind  wave  of  color  and  magnifi 
cence,  dotted  with  little  black  ovals  of  masks  pierced 
by  gleaming  eyeholes.  I  could  sense  Barbara  reading 
the  room  as  it  bore  down  on  her,  and  reading  it  clearly, 
getting  whatever  it  was  she  had  come  there  for.  My 
self,  I  was  overwhelmed,  drowned  in  the  size  and  sweep 
of  everything,  struggling  along,  whispering  to  her 
when  I  spotted  Jim  Edwards  in  his  friar's  robe, 
noticed  that  the  .Roman  soldier  who  must  be  Cummings, 
and  Bowman,  the  Spaniard,  squired  the  Thornhill 
twins  in  their  geisha  girl  dresses;  the  crimson  poppies 
of  a  Lady  of  Dreams  looked  odd  against  Laura  Bow 
man's  coppery  hair. 

At  the  head  of  the  procession  as  they  swung  around, 
leading  it  with  splendid  dignity,  came  a  pair  who  might 
have  been  Emperor  and  Empress  of  China — the  Van- 
demans.  To  go  on  with  affairs  as  if  nothing  had 
happened — though  Worth  Gilbert  was  in  jail — had 
been  the  laid-down  policy  of  both  Vandeman  and  his 
wife.  I'd  thought  it  reasonable  then;  foolish  to  get 
hot  at  it  now.  The  great,  shining,  rhythmically  mov 
ing  line  deployed,  interwove,  and  opened  out  again 
until  at  last  the  floor  was  almost  evenly  occupied  with 
the  many-colored  mass.  I  looked  at  Barbara:  the 
awful  intensity  with  which  she  read  her  room  hurt  me. 
It  had  nothing  to  do  with  that  flirt  of  a  glance  she 
always  gave  a  printed  page,  that  mere  toss  of  atten 
tion  she  was  apt  to  offer  a  problem.  The  child  was  in 
anguish,  whether  merely  the  ache  of  sorrow,  or  actual 
bodily  pain;  I  saw  how  rigidly  that  small  fist  still 
pressed  against  the  knitted  wool  of  her  sweater,  how 
her  lip  was  drawn  in  and  bitten.  Her  physical  weak 
ness  contrasted  strangely  with  the  clean  cut  decision, 


Jj 

296    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

the  absolute  certainty  of  her  mental  power.  She 
raised  her  face  and  looked  straight  up  into  mine. 

"Have  the  music  stopped." 

I  leaned  over  and  down  toward  the  orchestra  leader 
to  catch  his  eye,  holding  toward  him  the  badge.  His 
glance  caught  it,  and  I  told  him  what  we  wanted.  He 
nodded.  For  an  instant  the  music  flooded  on,  then  at 
a  sharp  rap  of  the  baton,  broke  off  in  mid-motion,  as 
though  some  great  singing  thing  had  caught  its  breath. 
And  all  the  swaying  life  and  color  on  the  floor  stopped 
as  suddenly.  Barbara  had  picked  the  moment  that 
brought  Ina  Vandeman  and  her  husband  squarely  fac 
ing  us.  After  the  first  instant's  bewilderment,  Van 
deman  and  his  floor  managers  couldn't  fail  to  realize 
that  they  were  being  held  up  by  an  outsider ;  with  Bar 
bara  in  full  sight  up  here  by  the  orchestra,  they  must 
know  who  was  doing  it.  I  wondered  not  to  have 
Vandeman  in  my  hair  already ;  but  he  and  his  consort 
stood  in  dignified  silence;  it  was  his  committee  who 
came  after  me,  a  Mephistopheles,  a  troubadour,  an 
Indian  brave,  a  Hercules  with  his  club,  swarming  up 
the  step,  wanting  to  know  if  I  was  the  man  responsible, 
why  the  devil  I  had  done  it,  who  the  devil  I  thought  I 
was,  anyhow.  Others  were  close  behind. 

"Edwards,"  I  called  to  the  brown  friar,  "can  you 
keep  these  fellows  off  me  for  a  minute?" 

Still  not  a  word  from  Barbara.  Nothing  from 
Vandeman.  Less  than  nothing :  I  watched  in  astonish 
ment  how  the  gorgeous  leader  stopped  dumb,  while 
those  next  him  backed  into  the  couple  behind,  side  step 
ping,  so  that  the  whole  line  yawed,  swayed,  and  began 
to  fall  into  disorder. 

"Cummings,"  as  I  glimpsed  the  lawyer's  chain  mail 


THE  COUNTRY  CLUB  BALL        297 

and  purple  feather,  "Keep  them  all  in  place  if  you  can. 
All." 

In  the  instant,  from  behind  my  shoulder  Barbara 
spoke. 

"Have  that  man — take  off  his  mask." 

A  little,  shaking  white  hand  pointed  at  the  leader. 

"Mr.  Vandeman,"  I  said.  "That's  an  order.  It'll 
have  to  be  done." 

The  words  froze  everything.  Hardly  a  sound  or 
movement  in  the  great  crowded  room,  except  the  little 
rustle  as  some  one  tried  to  see  better.  And  there,  all 
eyes  on  him,  Bronson  Vandeman  stood  with  his  arms 
at  his  sides,  mute  as  a  fish.  Ina  fumbled  nervously 
at  the  cord  of  her  own  mask,  calling  to  me  in  a  fierce 
undertone, 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mr.  Boyne,  bringing  that  girl 
here  to  spoil  things.  This  is  spite-work." 

"Off— take  his  mask  off!  Do  it  yourself!"  Bar 
bara's  voice  was  clear  and  steady. 

I  made  three  big  jumps  of  the  space  between  us 
and  the  leading  couple.  Vandeman's  committee- 
men  obstructed  me,  the  excited  yip  going  amongst 
them. 

"Vandeman — Bronse — Vannie — Who  let  this  fool 
in  here? — Do  we  throw  him  out?" 

Then  they  took  the  words  from  Edwards;  the  tune 
changed  to  grumblings  of,  "What's  the  matter  with 
Van?  Why  doesn't  he  settle  it  one  way  or  another, 
and  be  done?" 

Why  didn't  he?  I  had  but  a  breath  of  time  to  won 
der  at  that,  as  I  shoved  a  way  through.  Darn  him, 
like  a  graven  image  there,  the  only  mute,  immovable 
thing  in  that  turmoil!  I  began  to  feel  sore. 


298    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

"You  heard  what  she  said  ?"  I  took  no  trouble  now 
to  be  civil.  "She  wants  your  mask  off." 

No  flicker  of  response  from  the  man,  but  the  Em 
press  of  China  dragged  down  her  mask,  crying, 

"Heard  what  she  said?  What  she  wants?"  Over 
the  shoulders  of  the  crowd  she  gave  Barbara  Wallace 
a  venomous  look,  then  came  at  me. 

A  little  too  late.  My  hand  had  shot  out  and  snatched 
the  mask  from  the  face  of  China's  monarch.  A  mo 
ment  I  glared,  the  bit  of  black  stuff  in  my  grasp,  at 
the  alien  countenance  I  had  uncovered.  Crowding  and 
craning  of  the  others  to  see.  Jabbering,  exclaiming 
all  around  us. 

"Corking  make-up ;  looks  like  a  sure-enough  China 
man." 

"No  make-up  at  all.     The  real  thing." 

"What's  the  big  idea?" 

"Why  did  he  unmask,  then?" 

"Didn't  want  to.     They  made  him." 

And  last,  but  loudest,  repeated  time  and  again,  with 
wonder,  with  distaste,  with  rising  anger, 

"The  Vandeman's  Chinese  cook!" 

For  with  the  ripping  away  of  that  black  oval,  I 
had  looked  into  the  slant,  inscrutable  eyes  of  Fong 
Ling.  Hemmed  in  by  the  crowd,  he  could  but  face 
me;  he  did  so  with  a  kind  of  unhuman  passivity. 

And  the  committee  went  wild.  Their  own  masks 
came  off  on  the  run.  I  saw  Cummings'  face,  Bow 
man's;  Eddie  Hughes  slid  from  the  balcony  stair  and 
bucked  the  crowd,  pushing  through  to  the  seat  of  war. 
The  grand  march  had  become  a  jostling,  gabbling 
chaos. 

Barbara,  up  there,  above  it  all,  knew  what  she  was 


THE  COUNTRY  CLUB  BALL        299 

about.  I  had  utter  confidence  in  her.  But  she  was 
plainly  holding  back  for  a  further  development,  her 
eyes  on  the  entrances;  and  what  the  devil  was  my 
next  move? 

Ina  Vandeman  wheeled  where  she  stood  and  faced 
the  room,  both  hands  thrown  up,  laughing. 

"It  was  meant  to  be  a  joke — a  great,  big  foolish 
joke!"  her  high  treble  rang  out.  "Bron's  here  some 
where.  Wait.  He'll  tell  you  better  than  I  could.  At 
a  masquerade — people  do — they  do  foolish  things. 
.  .  .  They—" 

"Is  Bronse  Vandeman  here?"  I  questioned  Fong 
Ling.  The  Chinaman's  stiff  lips  moved  for  the  first 
time,  in  his  -formal,  precise  English. 

"Yes,  sir.  Mr.  Vandeman  will  explain."  He 
crossed  his  hands  and  resigned  the  matter  to  his  em 
ployer.  And  I  demanded  of  Ina  Vandeman,  "You 
tell  us  your  husband's  present — in  this  room  ?  Now  ?" 
and  when  her  answer  was  drowned  in  the  noise,  I 
roared, 

"Vandeman !  Bronson  Vandeman !  You're  wanted 
here!" 

No  answer.  Edwards  took  up  the  call  after  me; 
the  committee  yelled  the  name  in  all  keys  and  varia 
tions.  In  the  middle  of  our  squawking,  a  minor  dis 
turbance  broke  out  across  by  the  porch  entrance,  where 
Big  Bill  Capehart  stood.  As  I  looked,  he  turned  over 
his  post  to  Eddie  Hughes,  who  came  abreast  of  him 
at  the  moment,  and  started,  scuffling  and  struggling 
toward  us,  with  a  captive. 

"I  had  my  orders!"  his  big  voice  boomed  out. 
"Pinch  any  one  that  tried  to  get  in.  Y'don't  pass  me 
— not  if  you  was  own  cousin  to  God  A'mighty!" 


300   THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

On  they  came  through  the  crowd,  all  mixed  up ;  blue 
overalls,  and  a  flapping  costume  whose  rich,  many- 
colored  silk  embroideries,  flashed  like  jewels.  A  space 
widened  about  us  for  them.  The  big  garage  man  spun 
his  catch  to  the  center  of  it,  so  that  he  faced  the 
room,  his  back  to  the  orchestra. 

"Wanted  in,  did  ya?     Now  yer  in,  what  about  it?" 

What  about  it,  indeed?  In  Bill's  prisoner,  as  he 
stood  there  twitching  ineffectually  against  that  ob 
stinate  hold,  breathing  loud,  shakily  settling  his  clothes, 
we  had,  robe  for  robe,  cap  for  cap,  a  duplicate  Em 
peror  of  China! 

And  the  next  moment,  this  figure  took  off  its  mask 
and  showed  the  face  of  Bronson  Vandeman. 

Dead  silence  all  about  us;  Capehart  loosened  his 
grip,  abashed  but  still  truculent. 

"Dang  it  all,  Mr.  Vandeman,  if  you  didn't  want  to 
get  mussed  up,  what  made  you  fight  like  that?" 

"Fight?"  Vandeman  found  his  voice.  "Who 
wouldn't?  I  was  late,  and  you — " 

"Bron!"  After  one  desperate  glance  toward  the 
girl  up  on  the  platform,  Ina  ran  to  him  and  put  a 
hand  on  his  arm.  "They  stopped  the  march.  .  .  . 
Your — the — they  spoiled  our  joke.  But  have  them 
start  the  music  again.  You're  here  now.  Let's  go 
on  with  the  march  .  .  .  explain  afterward." 

"Good  business!"  Vandeman  filled  his  chest, 
glanced  across  at  Fong  Ling,  and  gave  his  social  circle 
a  rather  poor  version  of  the  usual  white-toothed  smile. 
"Jokes  can  wait — especially  busted  ones.  On  with 
the  dance ;  let  joy  be  unrefined !" 

Sidelong,  I  saw  the  orchestra  leader's  baton  go  up. 
But  no  music  followed.  It  was  at  Barbara  the  baton 


THE  COUNTRY  CLUB  BALL        301 

had  pointed,  at  Barbara  that  all  the  crowded  company 
stared.  Her  little  white  dress  clung  to  her  slender 
figure.  I  saw  that  now  she  was  in  the  strange  Buddha 
pose.  A  few  flecks  of  silver  paper,  still  in  her  black 
hair,  made  it  sparkle.  But  it  was  Barbara's  eyes  that 
held  us  all  spellbound.  In  her  colorless  face  those 
wonderful  openings  of  black'  light  seemed  to  look 
through  and  beyond  us.  For  an  instant  there  was  no 
stir.  Hundreds  of  faces  set  toward  her,  held  by  the 
wonder  of  her.  Fong  Ling's  yellow  visage  moved  for 
the  first  time  from  its  immobility  with  a  sort  of  awe, 
a  dread.  And  when  my  gaze  came  back  to  her,  I 
noticed  that,  with  the  dropping  of  her  hands  to  join 
the  fingertips,  she  had  left,  where  that  little,  pressing 
fist  had  been,  a  blur  of  red  on  the  white  sweater. 
Over  me  it  rushed  with  the  force  of  calamity,  she  had 
been  wounded  when  she  sank  down  back  there  in  the 
crowd.  It  was  a  shot — not  a  giant  cracker — we  had 
heard. 

"Vandeman,"  I  whirled  on  him,  "You  shot  this 
girl.  You  tried  to  kill  her." 

Sensation  enough  among  the  others;  but  I  doubt  if 
he  even  heard  me.  His  gaze  had  found  Barbara;  all 
the  bounce,  all  the  jauntiness  was  out  of  the  man,  as  he 
stared  with  the  same  haunted  fear  his  eyes  had  held 
when  she  concentrated  last  night  at  his  own  dinner 
table. 

She  was  concentrating  now;  could  she  stand  the 
strain  of  it,  with  its  weakening  of  the  heart  action, 
its  pumping  all  the  blood  to  the  brain?  I  shouldered 
my  way  to  her,  and  knelt  beside  her,  begging, 

"Don't,  Barbara.  Give  it  up,  girl.  You  can't  stand 
this." 


302    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

Her  hands  unclasped.  Her  eyes  grew  normal.  She 
relaxed,  sighingly.  I  leaned  closer  while  she  whis 
pered  to  me  the  last  addition  in  that  problem  of  two 
and  two — the  full  solution.  Armed,  I  faced  Vande- 
man  once  more. 

Something  seemed  to  be  giving  way  in  the  man ; 
his  lips  were  almost  as  pale  as  his  face,  and  that  had 
been,  from  the  moment  he  uncovered  it,  like  tallow. 
He  looked  withered,  smaller;  his  hair  where  it  had 
been  pressed  down  by  mask  and  cap,  crossed  his  fore 
head,  flat,  smooth,  dull  brown.  I  saw,  half  con 
sciously,  that  Fong  Ling  was  gone.  An  accomplice? 
No  matter;  the  criminal  himself  was  here — Barbara's 
wonder  man.  It  was  to  him  I  spoke. 

"Edward  Clayte,"  at  the  name,  Cummings  clanked 
around  front  to  stare.  "I  hold  a  warrant  for  your 
arrest  for  the  theft  of  nine  hundred  and  eighty  seven 
thousand  dollars  from  the  Van  Ness  Avenue  Savings 
Bank  of  San  Francisco." 

He  made  a  sick  effort  to  square  his  shoulders ; 
fumbled  with  his  hair  to  toss  it  back  from  its  straight- 
down  sleekness,  as  Clayte,  to  the  pompadoured  crest  of 
Vandeman.  How  often  I  had  seen  that  gesture,  not 
understanding  its  significance.  Cummings,  at  my  side, 
drew  in  a  breath,  with, 

"Why— damn  it !— he  is  Clayte !" 

"All  right,"  I  let  the  words  go  from  the  corner  oi 
my  mouth  at  the  lawyer,  in  the  same  hushed  tones  he'd 
used.  "See  how  you  like  this  next  one,"  and  finished, 
loud  enough  so  all  might  hear, 

"And  I  charge  you,  Edward  Clayte — Bronson  Van 
deman — with  the  murder  of  Thomas  Gilbert." 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

UNMASKED 

DISGRACE  was  in  the  air;  the  country  club  had 
seen  its  vice  president  in  handcuffs.  There  was 
a  great  gathering  up  of  petticoats  and  raising  of  moral 
umbrellas  to  keep  clear  of  the  dirty  splashings.  It 
made  me  think  of  a  certain  social  occasion  in  Israel 
some  thousands  of  years  ago,  when  Absalom,  at  his 
own  party,  put  a  raw  one  over  on  his  brother  Amnon, 
and  all  the  rest  of  King  David's  sons  looked  at  each 
other  with  jaws  sagging,  and  "every  man  gat  himself 
up  upon  his  mule  and  fled."  Here,  it  was  limousines; 
more  than  one  noble  chariot — filled  with  members  of 
the  faction  who'd  helped  to  rush  Vandeman  into  office 
over  the  claims  of  older  members — rolled  discredited 
down  the  drive. 

Yet  a  ball  is  the  hardest  thing  in  the  world  to  kill; 
like  a  lizard,  if  you  break  it  in  two,  the  head  and  tail 
go  right  on  wriggling  independently.  Also,  behind 
this  masked  affair  at  the  country  club  was  the  business 
proposition  of  a  lot  of  blossom  festival  visitors  from 
all  over  the  state  who  mustn't  be  disappointed.  By 
the  time  I'd  finished  out  in  front,  getting  my  prisoner 
off  to  the  lockup,  sending  Eddie  Hughes,  with  Cape- 
hart  and  the  other  helpers  he'd  picked  up  to  guard  the 
Vandeman  bungalow,  handed  over  to  the  Santa  Ysobel 
police  the  matter  of  finding  Fong  Ling,  and  turned 
back  to  see  how  Barbara  was  getting  on,  the  music 

303 


304    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

sounded  once  more,  the  rhythmic  movement  of  many 
feet. 

"The  boys  have  got  it  started  again,"  Jim  Edwards 
joined  me  in  the  hall,  his  tone  still  lowered  and  odd 
from  the  amazement  of  the  thing.  "Curious,  that 
business  in  there  yesterday,"  a  nod  indicated  the  little 
writing  room  toward  which  we  moved.  "Bronse  step 
ping  in,  brisk  and  cool,  for  you  to  question  him; 
pleasant,  ordinary  looking  chap.  Would  you  say  he 
had  it  in  his  head  right  then  to  murder  you — or  Bar 
bara — if  you  came  too  hot  on  his  trail?" 

"Me?"  I  echoed  sheepishly.  "He  never  paid  me 
that  compliment.  He  wasn't  afraid  of  me.  I  think 
Barbara  sealed  her  own  fate,  so  far  as  he  was  con 
cerned,  when  she  let  Worth  pique  her  into  doing  a 
concentrating  stunt  at  Vandeman's  dinner  table  last 
night.  The  man  saw  that  nothing  she  turned  that 
light  on  could  long  stay  hidden.  He  must  have  de 
cided,  then,  to  put  her  out  of  the  way.  As  for  his 
wife — well,  however  much  or  little  she  knew,  she'd 
not  defend  Barbara  Wallace." 

At  that,  Edwards  gave  me  a  look,  but  all  he  said 
was, 

"Cummings  has  suffered  a  complete  change  of 
heart,  it  seems.  I  left  him  in  the  telephone  booth, 
just  now,  calling  up  Dykeman.  He'll  certainly  keep 
the  wires  hot  for  Worth." 

"He'd  better,"  I  agreed ;  and  only  Edwards's  slight, 
dark  smile  answered  me. 

"There's  a  side  entrance  here,"  he  explained  mildly, 
as  we  came  to  the  turn  of  the  hall.  "I'll  unlock  itj 
and  when  Barbara's  ready  to  be  taken  home,  we  can 
get  her  out  without  every  one  gaping  at  her." 


UNMASKED  305 

He  was  still  at  the  lock,  his  back  to  me,  when  a 
door  up  front  slammed,  and  a  Spanish  Cavalier  came 
bustling  down  the  corridor,  pulling  off  a  mask  to  show 
me  Bowman's  face,  announcing, 

"I  think  you  want  me  in  there.  That  girl  should 
have  competent  medical  attention." 

"She  has  that  already,"  I  spoke  over  my  shoulder. 
"And  if  she  hadn't,  do  you  think  she'd  let  you  touch 
her,  Bowman?  Man,  you've  got  no  human  feeling. 
If  you  had  a  shred,  you'd  know  that  to  her  it  is  as 
true  you  tried  to  take  Worth's  life  with  your  lying 
testimony  as  it  is  that  Vandeman  murdered  Worth's 
father  with  a  gun." 

"Hah!"  the  doctor  panted  at  me;  he  was  fairly 
sober,  but  still  a  bit  thick  in  the  wits.  "You  people 
ain't  classing  me  with  this  crook  Vandeman,  are  you? 
You  can't  do  that.  No — of  course — Laura's  set  you 
all  against  me." 

Edwards  straightened  up  from  the  door.  With  his 
first  look  at  that  fierce,  dark  face,  the  doctor  began  to 
back  off,  finally  scuttling  around  the  turn  into  the 
main  hall  at  what  was  little  less  than  a  run. 

They  had  Barbara  sitting  in  the  big  Morris  chair 
while  they  finished  adjusting  bandages  and  garments. 
Our  young  cub  of  a  doctor,  silver  buttoned  velveteen 
coat  off,  sleeves  rolled  up,  hailed  us  cheerily, 

"That  bullet  went  where  it  could  get  the  most  blood 
for  the  least  harm,  I'd  say.  Have  her  all  right  in  a 
jiffy.  At  that,  if  it  had  been  a  little  further  to  one 
side—" 

And  I  knew  that  Edward  Clayte's  bullet — Bronson 
Vandeman's — had  narrowly  missed  Barbara's  heart. 

"This   wonderful  girl!"   the  doctor  went  on  with 


306    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

young  enthusiasm,  as  he  bandaged  and  pinned.  "Sit 
ting  up  there,  wounded  as  she  was,  and  forgetting  it, 
she  looked  to  me  more  than  human.  Sort  of  effect  as 
though  light  came  from  her." 

"I  was  ashamed  of  myself  back  there  in  the  Square, 
Mr.  Boyne,"  Barbara's  voice,  good  and  strong,  cut 
across  his  panegyric.  "Never  in  my  life  did  I  feel 
like  that  before.  My  brain  wasn't  functioning  nor 
mally  at  all.  I  was  confused,  full  of  indecision."  She 
mentioned  that  state,  so  painfully  familiar  to  ordinary 
humanity,  as  most  people  would  speak  of  being  raving 
crazy.  "It  was  agonizing,"  she  smiled  a  little  at  the 
others.  "Poor  Mr.  Boyne  helping  me  along — we'd  got 
somehow  into  a  crowd.  And  I  was  just  a  lump  of 
flesh.  I  hardly  knew  where  we  were.  Then  suddenly 
came  the  sound  of  the  shot,  the  stinging,  burning  feel 
ing  in  my  side.  It  knocked  my  body  down;  but  my 
mind  came  clear ;  I  could  use  it." 

"I'll  say  you  could,"  I  smiled.  "From  then  on, 
Bill  Capehart  and  I  were  the  lumps  of  flesh  that  you 
heaved  around  without  explanation." 

"There  wasn't  time;  and  I  was  afraid  you'd  find 
out  what  had  happened  to  me,  and  wouldn't  bring  me 
here,"  she  said  simply.  "I  knew  that  the  one  motive 
for  silencing  me  was  the  work  I'd  been  doing  for  Mr. 
Boyne." 

"Sure,"  I  said,  light  breaking  on  me.  "And  every 
possible  suspect  in  the  Gilbert  murder  case  was  under 
this  roof — or  supposed  to  be — the  grand  march  would 
be  the  show-down  as  to  that.  And  just  then  the  clock 
struck!  Poor  girl!" 

"It  was  a  race  against  time,"  Barbara  agreed.  "If 
we  could  get  here  first,  hold  the  door  against  who- 


UNMASKED  307 

ever  came  flying  to  get  in,  we'd  have  the  one  who 
shot  me." 

"But,  Barbara  child,"  Laura  Bowman  was  working 
at  a  sweater  sleeve  on  the  bandaged  side.  "You  did 
get  here  and  caught  Bronson  Vandeman ;  it  had  worked 
out  all  right.  Why  did  you  risk  sitting  up  in  that 
strained  pose,  wounded  as  you  were,  to  concentrate?" 

"For  Worth.  I  had  to  relate  this  crime  to  the  one 
for  which  he'd  been  arrested.  Within  the  hour,  I'd 
gathered  facts  that  showed  me  Edward  Clayte  killed 
Worth's  father.  When  I  brought  that  man  and  his 
crime  to  stand  before  me,  and  Bronson  Vandeman  and 
his  crime  to  stand  beside  it — as  I  can  bring  things 
when  I  concentrate  on  them — I  found  they  dove-tailed 
— the  impossible  was  true — these  two  were  one  man." 
She  looked  around  at  the  four  of  us,  wondering  at  her, 
and  finished,  "Can't  they  take  me  home  now,  doctor?" 

"Sit  and  rest  a  few  minutes.  Have  the  door  open," 
•the  young  fellow  said.  And  on  the  instant  there  came 
a  call  for  me  from  the  side  entrance. 

"Mr.  Boyne — are  you  in  there?  May  I  speak  to 
you,  please?" 

It  was  Skeet  Thornhill's  voice.  I  went  out  into  the 
entry.  There,  climbing  down  from  the  old  Ford  truck, 
leaving  its  engine  running,  was  Skeet  herself.  Her 
glance  went  first  to  the  door  I  closed  behind  me. 

"Yes,"  I  answered  its  question.  "She's  in  there.'' 
Then,  moved  by  the  frank  misery  of  her  eyes,  "She'll 
be  all  right.  Very  little  hurt." 

She  said  something  under  her  breath;  I  thought  it 
was  "Thank  God!"  looked  about  the  deserted  side  en 
trance,  seemed  to  listen  to  the  flooding  of  music  and 
movement  from  the  ballroom,  then  lifting  to  mine  a 


308    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

face  so  pale  that  its  freckles  stood  out  on  it,  faltered 
a  step  closer  and  studied  me. 

"They  phoned  us,"  scarcely  above  a  whisper. 
"Mother  sent  me  for  the  girls  and — Ina.  Mr.  Boyne," 
a  break  in  her  voice,  "am  I  going  to  be  able  to  take 
Ina  back  with  me?  Or  is  she — do  they — ?'' 

"Wait,"  I  said.  "Here  she  comes  now,"  as  Cum- 
mings  brought  young  Mrs.  Vandeman  toward  us.  She 
moved  haughtily,  head  up,  a  magnificent  evening  wrap 
thrown  over  her  costume,  and  saw  her  sister  without 
surprise. 

"Skeet,"  she  crossed  and  stood  with  her  back  to 
me,  "there's  been  some  trouble  here.  Keep  it  from 
mother  if  you  can.  I'm  leaving — but  we'll  get  it  all 
fixed  up.  How  did  you  get  here?  Can  I  take  you 
back  in  the  limousine?" 

The  big,  closed  car,  one  of  Vandeman's  wedding 
gifts  to  her,  purred  slowly  up  the  side  drive,  circling 
Skeet's  old  truck,  and  stopped  a  little  beyond.  Skeet 
gave  it  one  glance,  then  reached  a  twitching  hand  to 
catch  on  the  big  silken  sleeve. 

"You  can't  go  to  the  bungalow,  Ina.  As  I  came 
past,  they  were  placing  men  around  it  to— to  watch  it." 

"What!"  Ina  wheeled  on  us,  looking  from  one  to 
the  other.  "Mr.  Boyne — Mr.  Cummings — who  had 
that  done?" 

"Does  it  matter?"  I  countered.     She  made  me  tired. 

"Does  it  matter?"  she  snapped  up  my  words.  "Am 
I  to  be  treated  as  if — as  though — 

Even  Ina  Vandeman's  effrontery  wouldn't  carry  her 
to  a  finish  on  that.  I  completed  it  for  her,  explicitly, 

"Mrs.  Vandeman,  whether  you  are  detained  as  an 
accomplice  or  merely  a  material  witness,  I'm  respon- 


UNMASKED  309 

sible  for  you.  I  would  have  the  authority  to  allow  you 
to  go  with  your  sister;  but  you'll  not  be  permitted  to 
even  enter  the  bungalow." 

"It's  nearly  midnight,"  she  protested.  "I  have  no 
clothes  but  this  costume.  I  must  go  home." 

"Oh,  come  on !"  Skeet  pleaded.  "Don't  you  see  that 
doesn't  do  any  good,  Ina?  You  can  get  something  at 
our  house  to  wear." 

She  gave  me  a  long  look,  her  chin  still  high,  her 
eyes  hard  and  unreadable.  Then,  "For  the  present,  I 
shall  go  to  a  hotel."  She  laid  a  hand  on  Skeet's  shoul 
der,  but  it  was  only  to  push  her  away.  "Tell  mother," 
evenly,  "that  I'll  not  bring  my  trouble  into  her  house. 
Oh — you  want  Ernestine  and  Cora?  Well,  get  them 
and  go."  And  with  firm  step  she  walked  to  her  car. 

I  nodded  to  Cummings. 

"Have  one  of  Dykeman's  men  pick  her  up  and  hang 
tight,"  I  said,  and  he  smiled  back  understandingly, 
with, 

"Already  done,  Boyne.  I  want  to  speak  to  Miss 
Wallace — if  I  may.  Will  you  please  see  for  me?" 

A  moment  later,  he  marched  shining  and  jingling, 
in  through  a  door  that  he  left  open  behind  him,  pulled 
off  his  Roman  helmet  aS  though  it  had  been  a  hat,  and 
stood  unconsciously  fumbling  that  shoe-brush  thing 
they  trim  those  ancient  lids  with. 

"Barbara,"  he  met  the  eyes  of  the  girl  in  the  chair 
unflinchingly,  "you  told  me  last  night  that  the  only 
words  I  ever  could  speak  to  you  would  be  in  the  way 
of  an  apology.  Will  you  hear  one  now?  I'm  ready 
to  make  it.  Talk  doesn't  count  much;  but  I'm  going 
the  limit  to  put  Worth  Gilbert's  release  through." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  Barbara  looking  at  him 


310    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

quite  unmoved.  Behind  that  steady  gaze  lay  the  facts 
that  Worth  Gilbert's  life  and  honor  had  been  threat 
ened  by  this  man's  course;  that  she  herself  was  only 
alive  because  the  bullet  of  that  criminal  whom  his 
action  unconsciously  shielded  missed  its  aim  by  an 
inch:  Worth's  life,  her  life,  their  love  and  all  that 
might  mean — and  Barbara  had  eyes  you  could  read 
—I  didn't  envy  Cummings  as  he  faced  her.  Finally 
she  said  quietly, 

"I'll  accept  your  apology,   Mr.   Cummings,   when 
Worth  is  free." 


CHAPTER  XXX 

A  CONFESSION 

IN  the  dingy  office  of  the  city  prison,  with  its  sand 
boxes  and  barrel  stove,  its  hacked  old  desks,  dusty 
books  and  papers,  I  watched  Bronson  Vandeman,  and 
wondered  to  see  how  the  man  I  had  known  played  in 
and  out  across  his  face  with  the  man  Edward  Clayte, 
whom  I  had  tried  to  imagine,  whom  nobody  could 
describe. 

Helping  to  recover  Clayte's  loot  for  Worth  Gilbert 
looked  to  the  opposition  their  best  bet  for  squaring 
themselves.  Dykeman  from  his  sick  bed,  had  dug  us 
up  a  stenographer;  Cummings  had  climbed  out  of  his 
tin  clothes  and  come  along  with  us  to  the  jail.  They 
wanted  the  screws  put  on;  but  I  intended  to  handle 
Vandeman  in  my  own  way.  I  had  halted  the  lawyer 
on  the  lock-up  threshold,  with, 

"Cummings,  I  want  you  to  keep  still  in  here.  When 
I'm  done  with  the  man,  you  can  question  him  all  you 
want — if  he's  left  anything  to  be  told."  I  answered 
a  doubtful  look,  "Did  you  see  his  face  there  in  the 
ball  room  as  he  looked  up  at  Barbara  Wallace?  He 
thinks  that  girl  knows  everything,  like  a  supreme  being. 
He's  still  so  shaken  that  he'd  spill  out  anything — every 
thing.  He'll  hardly  suppose  he's  telling  us  anything 
we  don't  know." 

And  Vandeman  bore  out  expectations.  Now,  pro 
vided  with  a  raincoat  to  take  the  place  of  his  Man- 

3" 


312    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

darin  robe,  his  trousers  still  the  lilac  satin  ones  of  that 
costume,  he  surveyed  us  and  our  preparations  with  a 
half  smile  as  we  settled  our  stenographer  and  took 
chairs  ourselves. 

"I  look  like  hell — what?"  He  spoke  fast  as  a  man 
might  with  a  drink  ahead.  But  it  was  not  alcohol 
that  was  loosening  his  tongue.  "Why  can't  some  one 
go  up  to  my  place  and  get  me  a  decent  suit  of  clothes? 
God  knows  I've  plenty  there — closets  full  of  them." 

"Time  enough  when  th'  Shurff  gets  here,"  Roll  Win- 
chell,  the  town  marshall  grunted  at  him.  "I'm  not 
taking  any  chances  on  you,  Mr.  Vandeman.  You'll 
do  me  as  you  are." 

"Stick  a  smoke  in  my  face,  Cummings,"  came  next 
in  a  voice  that  twanged  like  a  stretched  string.  "Damn 
these  bracelets!  Light  it,  can't  you?  Light  it."  He 
puffed  eagerly,  got  to  his  feet  and  began  walking  up 
and  down  the  room,  glancing  at  us  from  time  to  time, 
raising  the  manacled  hands  grotesquely  to  his  cigar, 
drawing  in  a  breath  as  though  to  speak,  then  shaking 
his  head,  grinning  a  little  and  walking  on.  I  knew  the 
mood;  the  moment  was  coming  when  he  must  talk. 
The  necessity  to  reel  out  the  whole  thing  to  whomever 
would  listen  was  on  him  like  a  sneeze.  It's  always 
so  at  this  stage  of  the  game. 

For  all  the  hullabaloo  in  the  streets,  we  were  quiet 
enough  here,  since  the  lock-up  at  Santa  Ysobel  lurks 
demurely,  as  such  places  are  apt  to  do,  in  the  rear  of 
the  building  whose  garbage  can  it  is.  Our  pacing 
captive  could  keep  silent  no  longer.  Shooting  a  side 
long  glance  at  me,  he  broke  out, 

"I'm  not  a  common  crook,  Boyne,  even  if  I  do  come 
of  a  family  of  them,  and  my  father's  in  Sing  Sing.  I 


A  CONFESSION  313 

put  him  there.  They'd  not  have  caught  him  without. 
He  was  an  educated  man — never  worked  anything  but 
big  stuff.  At  that,  what  was  the  best  he  could  do — 
or  any  of  them?  Make  a  haul,  and  all  they  got  out 
of  it  was  a  spell  of  easy  money  that  they  only  had  the 
chance  to  spend  while  they  were  dodging  arrest. 
Sooner  or  later  every  one  of  them  I  knew  got  put  away 
for  a  longer  or  shorter  term.  Growing  up  like  that, 
getting  my  education  in  the  public  schools  daytimes, 
and  having  a  finish  put  on  it  nights  with  the  gang,  I 
decided  that  I  was  going  to  be,  not  honest,  but  the 
hundredth  man — the  thousandth — who  can  pull  off  a 
big  thing  and  neither  have  to  hide  nor  go  to  prison." 

This  was  promising;  a  little  different  from  the  or 
dinary  brag;  I  signaled  inconspicuously  to  our  stenog 
rapher  to  keep  right  on  the  job. 

"When  I  was  twenty-four  years  old,  I  saw  my 
chance  to  shake  the  gang  and  try  out  my  own  idea," 
Clayte  rattled  it  off  feelinglessly.  "It  was  a  lone  hand 
for  me.  My  father  had  made  a  stake  by  a  forgery; 
checks  on  the  City  bank.  I  knew  where  the  money 
was  hid,  eight  thousand  and  seventy  nine  dollars.  It 
would  just  about  do  me.  I  framed  the  old  man — I 
told  you  he  was  in  Sing  Sing  now — took  my  working 
capital  and  came  out  here  to  the  Coast.  That  money 
had  to  make  me  rich  for  life,  respected,  comfortable. 
I  figured  that  my  game  was  as  safe  as  dummy  whist." 

"Yeh,"  said  Roll  Winchell,  the  marshal,  gloomily, 
"them  high-toned  Eastern  crooks  always  comin'  out 
here  thinkin'  they'll  find  the  Coast  a  soft  snap." 

"Two  years  I  worked  as  a  messenger  for  the  San 
Francisco  Trust  Company,"  Clayte's  voice  ran  right 
on  past  Winchell's  interruption,  "a  model  employee, 


314    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

straight  as  they  come;  then  decided  they  were  too  big 
for  me  to  tackle,  and  used  their  recommendation  to 
get  a  clerk's  job  with  the  Van  Ness  Avenue  concern. 
I  was  after  the  theft  of  at  least  a  half  million  dollars, 
with  a  perfect  alibi ;  and  the  smaller  institution  suited 
my  plan.  It  took  me  four  years  to  work  up  to  paying 
teller,  but  I  wasn't  hurrying  things.  I  was  using  my 
capital  now  to  build  that  perfect  alibi." 

He  glanced  around  nervously  as  the  stenographer 
turned  a  leaf,  then  went  on, 

"I'd  picked  out  this  town  for  the  home  of  the  man 
I  was  going  to  be.  It  suited  me,  because  it  was  on  a 
branch  line  of  the  railway,  hardly  used  at  all  by  men 
whose  business  was  in  the  city,  and  off  the  main  high 
way  of  automobile  travel ;  besides,  I  liked  the  place — 
I've  always  liked  it." 

"Sure  flattered,"  came  the  growl  as  Winchell  stirred 
m  his  chair. 

"My  bungalow  and  grounds  cost  me  four  thousand ; 
at  that  it  was  a  run-down  place  and  I  got  it  cheap. 
The  mahogany — old  family  pieces  that  I  was  supposed 
to  bring  in  from  the  East — came  high.  Yet  maybe 
you'd  be  surprised  how  the  idea  took  with  me.  I  used 
to  scrimp  and  save  off  my  salary  at  the  bank  to  buy 
things  for  the  place,  to  keep  up  the  right  scale  of 
living  for  Bronson  Vandeman,  traveling  agent  for 
eastern  manufacturers,  not  at  home  much  in  Santa 
Ysobel  yet,  but  a  man  of  fine  family,  rich  prospects, 
and  all  sorts  of  a  good  fellow,  settled  in  the  place  for 
the  rest  of  his  days." 

He  turned  suddenly  and  grinned  at  me. 

"You  swallowed  it  whole,  Boyne,  when  you  walked 


A  CONFESSION  315 

into  my  house  last  night — the  old  family  furniture  I 
bought  in  Los  Angles,  the  second-hand  library,  that 
family  portrait,  with  a  ring  on  my  finger,  and  the 
same  painted  in  on  what  was  supposed  to  be  my 
father's  hand." 

"Sure,"  I  nodded  amiably,  "You  had  me  fooled." 

"And  without  a  bit  of  crude  make-up  or  disguise," 
he  rubbed  it  in.  "It  was  a  change  of  manner  and 
psychology  for  mine.  As  Edward  Clayte — and  that's 
not  my  name,  either,  any  more  than  Vandeman — I 
was  description-proof.  I  meant  to  be — and  I  was. 
It  took — her — the  girl,"  his  face  darkened  and  he 
jerked  at  his  cigar,  "to  deduce  that  a  nonenity  who 
could  get  away  with  nearly  a  million  dollars  and  leave 
no  trail  was  some  man!" 

I  raised  my  head  with  a  start  and  stared  at  the  man 
in  his  raincoat  and  lilac  silk  pantaloons. 

"That's  so,"  I  fed  it  to  him,  "She  had  a  name  for 
you.  She  called  you  the  wonder  man." 

"Did  she!"  a  pleased  smile.  "Well,  I'll  give  her 
right  on  that.  I  was  some  little  wonder  man.  Listen," 
his  insistent  over-stimulated  voice  went  eagerly  on, 
"The  beauty  of  my  scheme  was  that  up  to  the  very 
last  move,  there  was  nothing  criminal  in  my  leading 
this  double  life.  You  see — as  I  got  stronger  and 
stronger  here  in  Santa  Ysobel,  I  bought  a  good  ma 
chine,  a  speedster  that  could  burn  up  the  road.  Many's 
the  stag  supper  I've  had  with  the  boys  there  in  my 
bungalow,  and  been  back  behind  the  wicket  as  Edward 
Clayte  in  the  Van  Ness  Avenue  bank  on  time  next 
morning.  I  was  in  that  room  at  the  St.  Dunstan  about 
as  much  as  a  fellow's  in  his  front  hall.  I  walked 


316    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

through  it  to  Henry  J.  Brundage's  room  at  the  Nug 
get;  I  stayed  there  more  often  than  I  did  at  the  St. 
Dunstan,  unless  I  came  on  here. 

"I'd  left  marriage  out.  Then  that  night  four  years 
ago  when  Ina  had  her  little  run-in  with  old  Tom 
Gilbert  and  got  her  engagement  to  Worth  smashed, 
I  saw  there  might  be  girls  right  in  the  class  I  was 
trying  to  break  into  that  would  be  possible  for  a  man 
like  me.  The  date  for  our  wedding  was  set,  when 
Thomas  Gilbert  remarked  to  me  one  afternoon  as  we 
were  coming  off  the  golf  links  together,  that  he  was 
buying  a  block  of  Van  Ness  Savings  Bank  stock. 
For  a  minute  I  felt  like  caving  in  his  head,  then  and 
there,  with  the  golf  club  I  carried.  What  a  hell  of 
a  thing  to  happen,  right  at  the  last  this  way!  Ten 
chances  to  one  I'd  have  this  man  to  silence;  but  it 
must  be  done  right.  Not  much  room  for  murder  in 
so  full  a  career  as  mine — holding  down  a  teller's  job, 
running  for  the  vice  presidency  of  the  country  club, 
getting  married  in  style — but  every  time  I'd  look  up 
from  behind  my  teller's  grille,  and  see  any  one  near 
the  size  of  old  Gilbert  walk  in  the  front  door,  it 
gave  me  the  shivers.  I'd  put  more  than  eight  years 
of  planning  and  hard  work  into  this  scheme,  and  you'll 
admit,  Boyne,  that  what  I  had  was  some  alibi.  A 
wedding  like  that  in  a  town  of  this  size  makes  a  big 
noise.  I  managed  to  be  back  and  forth  so  much  that 
people  got  the  idea  I  was  hardly  out  of  Santa  Ysobel. 
The  Friday  night  before,  I  had  a  stag  supper  at  my 
house,  and  Saturday  morning  if  any  one  had  called, 
Fong  Ling  would  have  told  them  I  was  sleeping  late 
and  couldn't  be  disturbed.  On  the  forenoon  of  my 
wedding  day,  then,  I  sat  as  Edward  Clayte  in  my 


A  CONFESSION  317 

teller's  cage,  the  suitcase  I  had  carried  back  and  forth 
empty  for  so  many  Saturdays  now  loaded  with  cur 
rency  and  securities,  not  one  of  which  was  trace 
able,  and  whose  amount  I  believed  would  run  close 
to  a  million.  It  was  within  three  minutes  of  closing 
time,  when  some  one  rapped  on  the  counter  at  my 
wicket,  and  I  looked  straight  up  into  the  face  of  old 
Tom  Gilbert. 

"I  saw  a  flash  of  doubtful  recognition  in  his  eyes, 
but  didn't  dare  to  avoid  them  while  counting  bills  and 
silver  to  pay  his  check.  If  I  had  done  so,  he  would 
certainly  have  known  me.  As  it  was,  I  saw  that  I 
convinced  him — almost.  I  watched  him  as  he  went 
out,  saw  him  hesitate  a  little  at  the  door  of  Knapp's 
office — he  wasn't  quite  sure  enough.  I  knew  the  man. 
The  instant  he  made  certain,  he  would  act. 

"The  old  devil  wasn't  on  terms  to  attend  the  re 
ception  at  the  Thornhill  place,  but  I  located  him  in  an 
aisle  seat,  when  I  first  came  from  the  vestry  with 
my  best  man.  All  through  the  ceremony  I  felt  his 
eyes  boring  into  my  back.  When  I  finally  faced  him, 
as  Ina  and  I  walked  out,  man  and  wife,  I  knew  he 
recognized  me,  and  almost  expected  him  to  step  out 
and  denounce  me.  But  no — a  fellow  leading  a  double 
life  was  all  he  saw  in  it;  bigamy  was  the  worst  he'd 
suspect  me  of  at  the  moment.  He  didn't  give  Ina 
much,  wouldn't  lift  a  finger  to  defend  her. 

"Meantime,  the  manner  of  his  taking  off  lay  easy 
to  my  hand.  I'd  studied  the  situation  through  that 
skylight,  seen  Ed  Hughes  juggle  the  bolts  with  his 
magnets,  and  mapped  the  thing  out.  Gilbert  killed 
there,  the  room  found  bolted,  was  a  cinch  for  suicide. 
When  the  reception  at  the  Thornhill  house  was  over, 


318    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

I  made  an  excuse  of  something  needed  for  the  journey, 
and  started  across  to  my  bungalow.  It  was  common 
for  all  of  us  to  cross  through  the  lawns;  I  hid  in  the 
shrubbery. 

"There  were  people  with  Gilbert,  no  chance  for  me 
to  do  anything.  I  stood  there  and  nearly  went  out  of 
my  hide  with  impatience  over  the  delays,  while  he 
had  his  row  with  Worth,  when  Laura  Bowman  and 
Jim  Edwards  came  and  braced  him  to  let  up  on  his 
persecution  of  them.  Mrs.  Bowman  finally  left;  he 
went  with  her  toward  the  front.  Now  was  my  chance ; 
I  dodged  into  the  study,  jerked  his  own  pistol  from  its 
holster,  squeezed  myself  in  behind  the  open  door  and 
waited.  He  came  back;  I  let  him  get  into  the  room, 
past  me  a  little,  and  when  at  some  sound  I  made,  he 
turned,  the  muzzle  of  the  gun  was  shoved  against 
his  chest  and  fired. 

"I'd  barely  finished  pressing  Gilbert's  fingers  around 
the  pistol  butt  when  I  heard  a  cry  outside,  jumped  to 
the  door,  shut  and  bolted  it  just  as  my  mother-in-law 
ran  in  across  the  lawns.  I  gathered  that  she'd  been 
there  earlier  to  get  those  three  leaves  out  of  the  diary 
that  you  were  so  interested  in,  Boyne;  had  just  read 
them  and  come  back  to  have  it  out  with  old  Tom. 
She  hung  around  for  five  minutes,  I  should  say,  beating 
on  the  door,  calling,  asking  if  anything  was  wrong. 

"My  one  big  mistake  in  the  study  was  that  diary 
of  1920.  It  lay  open  on  the  desk  where  he'd  been 
writing.  It  did  tell  of  his  having  identified  me  as 
Clayte.  I'd  not  expected  it,  and  so  I  didn't  handle 
it  well.  Time  pressed.  I  couldn't  carry  it  with  me; 
I  tore  out  the  leaf,  stuck  the  book  into  the  drainpipe, 
and  ran. 


A  CONFESSION  319 

"And  after  all,"  he  summed  up,  "my  plans  would 
have  gone  through  on  schedule;  you  never  could  have 
touched  me  with  your  clumsy,  police-detective  methods, 
if  it  hadn't  been  for  the  girl." 

He  dropped  his  head  and  stood  brooding  a  moment, 
demanded  another  smoke,  got  it,  shrugged  off  some 
thought  with  a  gesture,  and  finished, 

"I  was  in  too  deep  to  turn.  It  was  her  life — or 
mine.  Things  went  contrary.  We  couldn't  get  her 
to  comie  out  to  the  masquerade,  where  it  would  have 
been  easy.  With  those  two  Mandarin  costumes,  Fong 
Ling  in  my  place,  I  had  my  time  from  the  hour  we 
put  on  the  masks  till  midnight  Another  perfect  alibi. 
Well — it  didn't  work.  They  say  you  have  to  shoot 
a  witch  with  a  silver  bullet.  And  she's  more  than 
human." 

A  siren's  dry  shriek  as  the  Sheriff's  gasoline  buggy 
made  its  way  through  the  crowded  street  outside. 
Cummings  raised  his  brows  at  me,  got  my  nod  of 
permission,  and  shot  his  first  question  at  the  prisoner. 

"Vandeman,  where's  the  money?" 

"Not  within  a  hundred  miles  of  here,"  instantly. 

"You  took  it  south  with  you — on  your  wedding 
trip  ?"  Cummings  would  persist.  But  our  man,  so  ex 
pansive  a  moment  ago,  had,  as  I  knew  he  would  at 
direct  mention  of  his  loot,  turned  sullen,  and  he  started 
for  the  San  Joee  jail,  mum  as  an  oyster. 


CHAPTER     XXXI 

THE  MILLION -DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

THE  Sheriff  had  gone  with  his  prisoner;  Cum- 
mings  left;  and  then  there  came  to  me,  in  the 
street  there  before  the  lock-up,  riding  with  Jim 
Edwards  in  his  roadster,  a  Worth  Gilbert  I  had  never 
known.  Quiet  he  had  been  before;  but  never  con 
siderate  like  this.  When  I  rushed  up  to  him  with  my 
triumph  and  congratulations,  and  he  put  them  aside, 
it  was  with  a  curious  gentleness. 

"Yes,  yes,  Jerry;  I  know.  Vandeman  turned  out 
to  be  Clayte."  Then,  noticing  my  bewilderment,  "You 
see,  Jim  let  it  slip  that  Barbara's  hurt.  Where  is 
she?"  And  Edwards  leaned  around  to  explain. 

"When  we  came  past  Capehart's,  and  she  wasn't 
there,  I—" 

"Oh,  that's  only  a  scratch,"  I  hurried  to  assure  the 
boy.  "Barbara'll  be  all  right." 

"So  Jim  said,"  he  agreed  soberly.  "I'm  afraid 
you're  both  lying  to  me." 

"All  right,"  I  climbed  in  beside  him.  "We'll  go 
and  see.  She's  up  at  your  house — waiting  for  you." 

As  we  headed  away  for  the  other  end  of  town,  he 
spoke  again,  half  interrogatively, 

"Vandeman  shot  her?"  and  when  I  nodded.  "He's 
on  his  way  to  jail.  I'm  out.  But  I'm  the  man  that's 
responsible  for  what's  happened  to  her.  Dragged  her 
into  this  thing,  in  the  first  place.  She  hated  those 

320 


THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE    321 

concentrating  stunts;  and  I  set  her  to  do  one  at  that 
woman's  table.  To  help  play  my  game — I  risked  her 
life." 

I  listened  in  wonder;  sidelong,  in  the  dimness,  I 
studied  the  carriage  of  head  and  shoulders:  no  diminu 
tion  of  power;  but  a  new  use  of  it.  This  was  not  the 
crude  boy  who  would  knock  everybody's  plans  to  bits 
for  a  whim;  Worth  had  found  himself;  and  what  a 
man! 

"How  does  it  look  for  recovering  the  money, 
Boyne?"  Edwards  questioned  as  we  drove  along. 

I  plunged  into  the  hottest  of  that  stuff  Clayte-Vande- 
man  had  spilled,  talked  fascinatingly,  as  I  thought,  for 
three  minutes,  and  paused  to  hear  Worth  say, 

"Who's  with  Barbara  at  my  house?" 

"Mrs.  Bowman,"  I  said  in  despair,  and  quit  right 
there. 

We  came  into  Broad  Street  a  little  above  the  Vande- 
man  bungalow  which  lay  black  and  silent,  the  lights 
of  Worth's  house  showing  beyond.  As  we  turned  the 
corner,  a  man  jumped  up  from  the  shadow  of  the 
hedge  where  the  Vandeman  lawn  joined  the  Gilbert 
place;  there  was  a  flash;  the  report  of  a  gun;  our 
watchers  had  flushed  some  one.  I'd  barely  had  time 
to  say  so  to  the  others  when  there  was  a  second  sharp 
crack,  then  the  whine  of  a  ricochetting  chunk  of  lead 
as  it  zipped  from  the  asphalt  to  sing  over  our  heads. 

"Beat  it !"  I  yelled.     "Stop  the  car  and  get  to  cover !" 

Edwards  slowed.  A  moment  Worth  hung  on  the 
running  board,  peering  in  the  direction  of  the  sounds. 
I  started  to  climb  out  after  him.  There  came  an 
other  shot  from  up  ahead,  and  then  a  shout.  As  I 
tumbled  to  my  feet  in  the  dark  road,  Worth  had 


322    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

started  away  on  the  jump.  And  I  saw  then,  what  I'd 
missed  before,  that  the  man  who  had  burst  from  the 
hedge,  was  running  zig-zag  down  the  open  roadway  to 
ward  us.  He  was  making  his  legs  spin,  and  dodging 
from  side  to  side  as  if  to  duck  bullets.  Worth  headed 
straight  for  him,  as  though  it  wasn't  plain  that  some 
one  out  of  sight  somewhere  was  making  a  target  of 
the  runner. 

Not  the  kind  of  a  scrap  I  care  for;  in  a  half  light 
you  can't  tell  friend  from  foe ;  but  Worth  went  to  it — 
and  what  was  there  to  do  but  follow?  I  shouted  and 
blew  my  whistle,  hoping  our  men  would  hear,  heed, 
and  let  up  shooting.  At  the  moment  of  my  doing  so, 
Worth  closed  with  the  man,  who  dropped  something 
he  was  carrying,  and  tackled  low,  lunging  at  the  boy's 
knees,  aiming  I  could  see  to  let  Worth  dive  over  and 
scrape  up  the  pavement  with  his  face. 

No  dodging  that  tackle ;  it  caught  Worth  square ;  he 
even  seemed  to  spring  up  for  the  dive ;  and  somehow 
he  carried  his  opponent  with  him  to  soften  the  fall. 
They  came  down  together  in  the  middle  of  the  hard 
road  with  the  shock  of  a  railway  collision;  rolled  over 
and  over  like  dogs  in  a  scrap,  only  there  wasn't  any 
growling  or  yelping.  It  was  deadly  quiet ;  not  for  an 
instant  could  you  tell  which  was  which,  or  whether  the 
whirling,  pelting  tangle  of  arms  and  legs  was  man, 
beast  or  devil.  That's  why,  even  when  I  got  near 
enough,  I  didn't  dare  plant  a  large,  thick-soled  boot  in 
the  mess. 

The  fight  was  up  to  Worth;  nothing  else  for  it. 
Capehart  came  rolling  from  the  hedge  where  I  had  seen 
the  pistols  flash;  Eddie  Hughes,  inconceivable  in  pink 
puffings,  bounded  after ;  Jim  Edwards  chased  up  from 


THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE    323 

his  car;  but  all  any  of  us  could  do  was  to  run  up  and 
down  as  the  struggle  whirled  about,  and  grunt  when 
the  blows  landed.  These  sounded  like  a  pile-driver 
hitting  a  redwood  butt.  Out  of  the  melee  an  arm 
would  jerk,  the  fist  at  the  end  of  it  come  back  to  land 
with  a  thud — on  somebody's  meat. 

"Who  the  devil  is  it?"  I  bellowed  at  Capehart,  as 
the  two  grappled,  afoot,  then  down,  no  knowing  who 
was  on  top,  spinning  around  in  a  struggle  where  neither 
boots  nor  knees  were  barred. 

"He  sneaked  out  of  the  bungalow  just  now,"  Cape- 
hart  snorted.  "We'd  searched  the  place.  Didn't  think 
there  was  room  for  a  louse  to  be  hid  in  it.  Got  by  the 
boys.  I  stopped  him  at  the  hedge  and  drove  him  into 
the  open.  Now  Worth's  got  him.  That  is  Worth, 
ain't  it?  Fights  like  him." 

"Yes,"  I  said,  "It's  Worth/'  But  in  my  own  mind 
I  wasn't  sure  whether  Worth  had  the  fugitive,  or  the 
fugitive  had  Worth.  And  Jim  Edwards  muttered 
anxiously,  as  we  skipped  and  side-stepped  along  with 
the  fight, 

"That  fellow  may  have  a  knife  or  a  gun." 

"Not  where  he  can  draw,"  I  said,  "or  he'd  have  used 
it  before  now."  And  Capehart  sung  out, 

"Sure.     Leave  'em  go.     Worth'll  fix  him." 

Edging  in  too  close,  I  got  a  kick  on  the  shin  from  a 
flying  heel,  and  was  dancing  around  on  one  foot  nurs 
ing  the  other  when  I  heard  sounds  of  distress  issue 
from  the  tangle  in  the  road;  somebody  was  getting 
breath  in  long,  gaspy  sighs  that  broke  off  in  grunts 
when  the  thud  of  blows  fell,  and  merged  in  the  harsh 
nasal  of  blood  violently  dislodged  from  nose  and 
throat.  For  a  while  they  had  been  up,  and  swapping 


324        THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

punches  face  to  face,  lightning  swift.  Sounds  like 
boxing,  perhaps,  but  there  wasn't  any  science  about  it. 
Feint?  Parry?  Footwork?  Not  on  your  life! 
Each  of  these  two  was  trying  to  slug  the  other  into 
insensibility,  working  for  any  old  kind  of  a  knock-out. 

I  began  to  be  a  little  nervous  for  fear  the  boy  I  was 
bringing  home  from  jail  as  a  peace  offering  to  Barbara 
might  arrive  so  defaced  that  she  wouldn't  recognize 
him,  when  I  saw  one  dark  form  pull  away,  leap  back, 
an  arm  shoot  out  like  a  piston-rod,  and  with  a  jar  that 
set  my  own  teeth  on  edge,  connect  with  the  other  man's 
chin.  He  went  down  clawing  the  air,  crumpled  into  a 
bunch  of  clothes  at  the  side  of  the  road. 

"You  wanted  the  Chink,  didn't  you,  Bill?"  This 
was  Worth,  facing  Jim  Edwards's  torch,  fumbling  for 
his  handkerchief.  "I  heard  you,  and  I  thought  you 
wanted  him." 

"It's  Fong  Ling!"  bawled  Capehart.  "Sure  we 
wanted  him — and  whatever  that  was  he  was  carrying. 
Where  is  it?  Did  he  drop  it?" 

"Sort  of  think  he  did,"  Worth  was  dabbing  off  his 
own  face  with  a  gingerly,  respectful  touch.  "I  know 
he  dropped  some  teeth  back  there  in  the  road.  Saw 
him  spit  'em  out.  Maybe  he  left  it  with  them.  You 
might  go  and  look." 

The  four  of  us  drifted  along  the  field  of  battle,  Cape- 
hart's  assistant  having  taken  charge  of  the  unconscious 
Chinaman,  whom  he  was  frisking  for  weapons.  Half 
way  back  to  the  hedge  Bill  stumbled  on  something, 
picked  it  up,  and  dropped  it  again  with  a  disgusted 
grunt. 

"Nothing  but  a  Chinaboy's  keister,"  he  said  con- 


THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE    325 

temptuously.  "Not  much  to  that.  Why  in  blazes  did 
he  rim  so?" 

"Because  you  were  shooting  him  up,  I'd  say,"  Jim 
Edwards  suggested. 

"Naw.  Commenced  to  run  before  we  turned  loose 
on  him,"  Bill  protested. 

"Hello !"  I  had  pounced  on  the  unbelievable  thing, 
and  called  to  Edwards  for  his  light.  "Worth,  here's 
your  eight-hundred-thousand-dollar  suitcase !" 

"That!"  he  followed  along,  dusting  himself  off,  try 
ing  out  his  joints.  "Oh,  yes.  I  left  it  in  my  closet, 
and  it  disappeared.  Told  you  of  it  at  the  time,  didn't 
I,  Jerry?" 

"You  did  not,"  I  sputtered,  down  on  my  knees, 
working  away  at  the  catches.  "You  never  told  me 
anything  that  would  be  of  any  use  to  us.  If  this  thing 
disappeared,  I  suppose  Vandeman  stole  it  to  get  a  piece 
of  evidence  in  the  Clayte  case  out  of  the  way." 

"Likely."  Worth  turned,  with  no  further  interest, 
and  started  toward  his  own  gate. 

"Hi!  Come  back  here,"  I  yelled  after  him.  For 
the  lock  gave  at  that  moment;  there,  under  the  pale 
circle  of  the  electric  torch,  lay  Clayte- Vandeman's  loot ! 

"My  gosh!"  mumbled  Capehart.  "I  didn't  suppose 
there  was  so  much  money  in  the  known  world." 

Eddie  Hughes,  breathing  hard ;  Jim  Edwards,  bend 
ing  to  hold  the  torch ;  Capehart,  stooping,  blunt  hands 
spread  on  knees,  goggle-eyed ;  my  own  fingers  shaking 
as  I  dragged  out  my  list  and  attempted  to  sort  through 
the  stuff — not  one  of  us  but  felt  the  thrill  of  that  great 
fortune  tumbled  down  there  in  the  open  road  in  the 
empty  night. 


326    THE  MILLION-DOLLAR  SUITCASE 

But  Worth  delayed  reluctantly  at  the  edge  of  the 
shadows,  looking  with  impatience  across  his  shoulder, 
eager  to  be  on — to  get  to  Barbara.  Yet  I  wanted  that 
suitcase  to  go  into  the  house  in  his  hand;  wanted  him 
to  be  able  to  tell  his  girl  that  she'd  made  him  a  winner 
in  the  gamble  and  the  long  chase.  Roughly  assured 
that  only  a  few  thousands  had  been  used  by  Van- 
deman,  I  stuck  the  handles  into  his  fist  and  trailed 
along  after  his  quick  strides.  Edwards  followed  me. 
Laura  Bowman  opened  the  door  to  us;  she  stopped 
Edwards  on  the  porch. 

And  then  I  saw  my  children  meet.  I  hadn't  meant 
to;  but  after  all,  what  matter?  They  didn't  know  I 
was  on  earth.  Creation  had  resolved  itself,  for  them, 
into  the  one  man,  the  one  woman. 

The  suitcase  thumped  unregarded  on  the  floor.  She 
came  to  him  with  her  hands  out.  He  took  them 
slowly,  raised  them  to  his  shoulders,  and  her  arms  went 
round  his  neck. 


THE   END 


CAVLORD 


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